


Untethered

by thenerdnextdoor



Category: Jessica Jones (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alcoholic Jessica Jones, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, But they make a good team, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Jessica Jones and MCU Canon Divergence, Minor Luke Cage/Jessica Jones, Not Canon Compliant, POV Jessica Jones, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reluctant Friendship, Reluctant Teamwork, Slow Burn, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, they're both messy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:07:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 66,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28493610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thenerdnextdoor/pseuds/thenerdnextdoor
Summary: Jessica Jones has many flaws and fears. Her short fuse has her storming into the midst of the Battle of New York; her paranoia has her keeping the Avengers at arms' length. But she isn't the only one dealing with paranoia and PTSD. Tony Stark seems to be spiralling in Stark Tower all alone, and sometimes Jessica just gives a damn.//Stark rolls his eyes. "You don't have to storm off every time someone tries to get to know you.""Yeah, maybe I should punch them in the throat instead," Jessica retorts. "Maybe that'd get the message across."Stark actually laughs. "God, you're delightful," he beams at her.Jessica can only watch him, her eyebrows twitching downwards with the corner of her mouth.
Relationships: Jessica Jones & Tony Stark, Jessica Jones/Tony Stark
Comments: 56
Kudos: 63





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This story is also on fanfiction.net.

She should really have every lightbulb in her small apartment switched on and glaring, since the darkness always seems to press in around her, hiding black eyes and soft-spoken words. She's always got that tension in her jaw, her teeth biting into each other, grinding and chewing, and it's because of that sliver of attention that is always directed towards the darkness, the shadows, always waiting for the monster to jump out or, worse, speak. So, yeah, switching the lights on would maybe give her jaw a break, let the tension headache ease off a little, prove to her paranoid chaos of a mind that she is, in fact, alone, and not being watched by black eyes and cruel sneers. But she's come to accept that she belongs in the darkness now, where she can slink away unnoticed, where her soul isn't illuminated and bare for all to see, where she can wince her way through half a bottle of whiskey without the bartender giving her that _look_ \- the you-look-pretty-fucked-up-maybe-I-shouldn't-give-you-any-more-drink kind of look.

And so she sits, in the wooden chair with the broken back that'll fall apart if she leans into it too much, at the desk that would wobble if not for the folded up take-out menu shoved under the stunted leg, her DSLR on her left, her whiskey on her right, her face in her laptop, and nothing but the glaring screen and the lights of the city outside to fend off the darkness that closes in around her body and mind, no matter what time of day it is. And, in the darkness, the emptiness of her apartment, the glaring lack of furniture and decoration, of warmth and personality, can't mock her and degrade her, can't promise how she deserves this, deserves the paranoia and cold and isolation, can't echo with the hollow reminder of what her life could have been, if not for him.

Yeah, the darkness is cold and harsh and a form of some self-inflicted punishment for actions that weren't technically her own but sure as hell felt like it, and, yeah, she's aware that she's made no real effort to do anything at all to break out of this suffocating cage of self-loathing and paranoia save for chasing the bottom of a shot glass; _but_ , it's important to note, and she knows how angsty and cowardly it makes her look, that Jessica Jones just does not care anymore.

Because she's done too much wrong now to ever go back, because she's been warped and bent so harshly at her very core that she's come out the other side a completely different person, because it's already enough of an effort fighting against the whispers to simply exist, that fighting to be _good_ and _kind_ again and step back into the light seems utterly impossible - and fruitless, anyway, because she doesn't belong in the light. She's not sure she ever did.

The bitter truth is that she thrives in the darkness. Here, where she sneaks and blackmails and threatens, where she spends her days gathering evidence of affairs and corruption and violence, where her pessimism and cynicism is constantly and relentlessly proven useful and warranted, Jessica Jones has found herself a place in the world, somewhere she has a purpose, somewhere she can exist without tainting everything she touches, somewhere people can see as soon as they look at her that she belongs, that she deserves to belong. And, if she belongs, if this is her place in the world, why the hell would she try to belong somewhere else?

So she stares up at the man standing in the middle of the apartment, her elbow on her desk, her cheek resting in her hand, the tip of her ring finger resting in the corner of her eye, pushing the skin upwards, and the corner of her mouth twitches with hollow amusement.

"You wanna make a team of heroes," she intones, the brazen _ridiculousness_ of the idea astounding her. "And you came here, to this run-down building, full of druggies and criminals, knocked on the door with the shattered window, walked into this shithole apartment, took one look at _my_ sorry ass, and decided that, no, this isn't a mistake?"

The man lifts his chin, his bald head glinting with the light of the neon sign outside her window, and his one-eyed gaze flicks to the door of her apartment. His hands are hidden inside his knee-length leather jacket's pockets, his black turtleneck resting below his jawline, his black cargo pants tucked into a pair of black boots, and Jessica wonders if he thinks it makes him look intimidating.

"Well, if it wasn't for the sheet of cardboard taped over the window, this probably would've played out differently," he says, his tone serious, but the skin around his uncovered eye twitches.

Jessica meets his guarded and unyielding stare, her other hand resting at the wrist on the edge of the table, fingers curled lazily around her whiskey glass. She shifts a little in her chair to draw her feet towards her body, crossing her legs at the ankle, curving her chest towards the desk to crack her back. She looks over to the cardboard in question and lets a smirk pull at her lips.

"Good to know your opinion of my suitability would be so easily swayed," she comments, turning her flat stare back to him, shrugging a shoulder. "I don't blame you."

He lets out a short, flat hum of amusement, watching her. But he doesn't reply. Jessica blinks, licking her lips, her eyes dropping to her laptop and the scandalous article she was reading before his fist wrapped on her door at 9.37pm on this mundane Tuesday night.

"In case you're not catching on, I am definitely _not_ suitable for your little do-gooder gang," she says, lifting her glass to her lips, letting the whiskey slip over her tongue and down her throat, swallowing the burn with grim satisfaction.

"I can think of a certain eight-month period that would prove you wrong," he retorts. "Certain tales woven by a little girl who ran out into the road, a family whose car went off a bridge.." he trails off, eyebrows lifting, the promise of a longer list on his tongue.

Jessica stares up at him over the top of her screen with her teeth clenched. She lowers her glass back down to the desk, the soft thud rocking the liquid gently. She tries to breathe steadily, in and out through her nostrils, her middle finger tapping her temple, and the darkness presses in.

"That was almost two years ago," she says hollowly. "You're looking at a different person."

His eye narrows at her, forehead flattening again. His head tilts. "I'm not so sure that I am," he replies. "You don't exactly hide, Miss Jones, and your clients - and victims - certainly have a lot to say about you."

Jessica's lips curl in a cold smirk. "I tear marriages apart, ruin businesses, air out people's dirty secrets," she says. "Generates a lot of bitching."

"You also save women from domestic violence, children from neglectful families," he retorts. "Find murderers when their killings were passed off as suicides. _That_ generates a lot of praise."

Jessica shakes her head, straining not to roll her eyes. "Yeah, I'm not a sadist," she mutters, letting her hand drop from her cheek to land on the desk. His mouth twitches, eye gleaming, and she glares, lifting the hand holding her glass to point at him. "Doesn't make me a good person, though, or a candidate for this circus you're selling." She downs the rest of her glass and sets it back down.

"Maybe not," he allows, shrugging a shoulder. "But I'm willing to find out."

"Listen," she sighs, crossing her arms on her desk, levelling him with a flat look. Her bitter amusement is morphing into irritation, now. "Even if I _was_ a suitable candidate, which I'm clearly not, I'm telling you right now that I'm not interested. I don't wanna be a part of some team of goody-two-shoe nerds."

His mouth curls into his cheek, an eyebrow lifting. "Who said they were goody-two-shoes?" he challenges.

She scoffs. "Don't tell me you're making a band of so-called heroes, and the people you're inviting are all as shitty as I am."

"I'm working on a healthy balance."

Jessica cocks her head, tonguing her cheek, her lips stretching wide. "A healthy balance?" she repeats, amused.

He shrugs, walking slowly to her window, looking out at the street below. "I _do_ have a man driven by honour and a remarkable moral compass," he allows. "Figure I need someone such as yourself to balance it out."

"To piss on his good morals?" she asks flatly.

"To tell it like it is," he retorts, looking at her over his shoulder. "To dig deeper than what's on the surface. To make the tough call and follow through."

Jessica smirks. "You mean to be the paranoid, cold-hearted asshole." The man watches her, not moving to deny the accusation. "You want me on the team to do all the dirty work, say the shit that people hate you for, doubt the honesty and goodness of everyone around me, because that's what I do for a living, right? So why wouldn't I do it in a team?"

He turns his body to face her again, stepping back into the middle of her apartment. His eye watches her, staring, still guarded. He shrugs a shoulder again, eye narrowing. "So, why not?" he asks.

Jessica huffs out an unimpressed noise, reaching for the bottle of whiskey to pour herself another glass. "Because I don't _do_ teams," she answers, watching the liquid slosh into the dirty glass. Her voice is lifted a little in volume, trying to block out the whispers that claw at her from the shadows.

"Doesn't make you special, Miss Jones," he retorts. "I'm only confident that two out of the six potential candidates can actually work well in a team. The rest would tell me the exact same thing you did, for varying reasons."

Jessica stares at him as she takes a sip of her drink. She swallows the liquid down, licking her lips, letting the glass hover in the air in her loose grip. "Is that supposed to make the team sound more enticing?" she questions, frowning.

He smiles, and there's a challenge in his eye. "Less intimidating."

Jessica actually grins, eyebrows lifting. "Oh, so you think you can imply I'm a coward and it'll provoke me into joining the team to prove you wrong?"

"I'm not implying anything, Miss Jones. Simply giving you all the information I can to help you make a decision."

"There's no decision to make," she says, taking another sip. She sets the glass down on the desk again. "I told you, I'm not interested."

He regards her for a moment, eye narrowing, glancing over her face. His boots make soft thuds when he stalks towards her, lifting a card out of his pocket and placing it on her desk, two fingers pressing it down as if to ingrain it onto the wood.

"There will come a time when the world needs you, Miss Jones," he says quietly, sticking her with a piercing stare. "And I don't think you'll turn your back on it so easy."

He holds her gaze for another breath, and then turns to walk to the door, the hem of his leather jacket swirling in the air around his legs. She watches the back of his head as he opens the door and steps out into the hallway, but he doesn't send her a backwards glance. The door closes behind him, a strip of tape holding the cardboard falling, the sheet slipping a little.

Jessica swallows, eyes dropping to the card he left on the table. Charcoal grey, with black lettering, the words almost seem to mock her with their severity.

"Director Nicholas J. Fury, S.H.I.E.L.D."

There must be a form of contact on the other side of the card.

Jessica picks up her glass and swallows the rest of her drink, wincing at the volume of fire burning down her throat. She opens a drawer on her left, fingers circling around something plastic. She deposits the glass at her side again and reaches for the card, bringing her hands together, glaring at the font and letters and colours. Her foot nudges the bin out from under her desk and she ignites the lighter in her hand, holding the flame to the corner of the card.

She watches it burn, feeling the darkness pressing in around her, whispers snaking into her ears, jaw clenched. The flame crawls up over the text, reaching for the logo of the organisation, and she drops the card into her bin, watching the grey turn brown and crinkled, shrivelling up into nothing. The flame finishes its erasure, extinguishing in a small puff of smoke, and she nudges the bin back under her desk again, eyes finding the sentence she was reading in the article before her visitor interrupted, hands reaching to pour another glass of whiskey.

No, there's no point trying to belong anywhere else. The world has treated her as it has, broken and beaten her to fit into this cramped, cold, pit of a purpose, and she doesn't care enough to try fit anywhere else, even if the world _did_ somehow shape her into something else, some _one_ else. The darkness is her enemy, a place to house the monsters in her mind, but Jessica is a monster too, and the darkness welcomes her as such.


	2. Rage Is a Great Motivator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jessica suffers the hangover from hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy this story, if you're reading it! I'm posting it here even though it's already on fanfiction.net because I need to jump-start my motivation again and I'm hoping some fresh interest will inspire me!
> 
> Also, Jessica's powers are gonna be a bit stronger in this than they were in the TV show - more on the level of her comic version, from what I could gather.

The fire alarm goes off and Jessica lets out a muffled groan into her pillow, her face crumpling with annoyance and pain, the sharp screeching noise piercing through the fogginess of her sleep-deprived, hungover mind. She can vaguely hear the clatter of feet from her neighbours' surrounding flats, muffled voices shouting and crying out. Her eyes roll under her eyelids at their panic, her nose sniffing for smoke and coming up blank.

She grabs at her pillow and pulls it over her head, clamping it around her ears. But then someone starts hammering on the door to her apartment.

"Everybody out!" a voice shouts through the boarded-up window. "This is the NYPD, we are evacuating the building!"

Jessica cracks an eye open, scowling. The hammering continues, the police officer repeating himself. She throws the pillow off her head, rolling onto her back, hands reaching to rub at her face. There are some other muffled noises she suddenly picks up on, realising they're coming from outside the building, and her grumbling fades as curiosity takes over.

"NYPD! Everyone outta the apartment, we are evac-"

"Okay, _alright_ , I get it!" she yells to her living room, untangling her legs from her sheets. "I'm coming, jesus."

Her bare feet touch the floor and she moves to change into fresh clothes, pulling on jeans, a tank top, and a zipped jumper. She shoves her feet into her boots, running her fingers through her limp hair, and stomps through to the living room/office, finding the outside noises louder in here.

"Ma'am, you need to evacuate the building _now_!" the officer shouts, slamming his fist into the door again.

"Two seconds!" she snaps, one hand reaching for her leather jacket on the arm of the couch, the other swiping the nearly-finished bottle of whiskey from her desk.

She tucks the bottle in her armpit so she can pull the jacket on, her forehead creasing in confusion, eyes squinting into the bright sunlight of the day outside her window, and tries to make sense of the dull thuds she can hear. She shrugs the jacket over her shoulders as she pulls closer, her hand slipping the bottle out from her armpit and unscrewing the lid.

"Ma'am, please hurry, or I'll be forced to come in there and drag you out!"

Jessica's boots scuff as she comes to stand at the window, her hand lifting her bottle to her lips. She pauses, rolling her eyes at the officer. "I'd like to see you try," she mutters, lips brushing the bottle as she tilts her head back and takes a gulp, swishing the alcohol around her teeth.

She's mid-swallow when something flies past her window, and she coughs in shock, the whiskey surging back up her throat and into the back of her nose. It burns her nostrils and she doubles over, spitting the alcohol out, another cough clawing up her throat that's dangerously close to a retch.

"Jesus," she chokes, face contorting in disgust and confusion, straightening up to peer out the window again.

Another thing flies past, and she manages to kind of make out what it is this time, but she must have _not_ really made it out at all, because it _looked_ like a very unhuman figure standing on a flying treadmill, and in _what world_ does that make any sense?

"I'm coming in!" the officer shouts, and the door bursts open - it wasn't even locked, so he didn't need the theatrics, but Jessica is too confused and shocked to tell him that.

"You need to go _now_ , ma'am," he says firmly, and he grabs a hold of her arm, hauling her backwards.

Jessica's gaze is pinned to the window still, eyes narrowed, forehead crumpled, mouth twisted, her hand holding firm to the neck of her whiskey bottle. Her feet nearly stumble over themselves as she lets this man drag her out of her apartment, and it's only then that she realises what's going on.

"Hey," she snaps, twisting in his hold, ripping her arm free.

He looks at her, not at all subtle in his exasperation. "Seriously, ma'am, this isn't a joke. Something's happening out there, I've never- I don't-" he stumbles, eyes glazing over with shock and fear.

Jessica stares at him. "What?" she demands.

He just opens and closes his mouth, and then clenches his jaw and grabs at her arm again. "We need to get everyone out of this area, right now," he snaps.

"Okay, _fine_ ," she hisses, pulling her arm free again. "Just let me get my-"

"You don't have time!" he shouts, and she can hear the crack in his voice, see the desperation in his eyes.

Her jaw clenches, teeth grinding, glaring eyes glancing back into her apartment where her camera and laptop remain on her desk - at least her phone is in her jacket pocket - and finally relents, stomping down the hallway behind the police officer. "Goddamnit," she mutters.

Most people have fled their apartments, doors left hanging open, clothes and other belongings dropped to the floor in their haste. She can hear them clattering down the stairwell, shouting and clammaring to get into the elevator on whichever floor managed to call it. The police officer chases some more stragglers down the hall, mostly people too high to realise the potential danger outside - not that Jessica has much of an idea, either.

She can hear the dull noises she noticed earlier, louder now, stronger, and when the doors rattle in their frames and the floor shoogles beneath her feet, she realises the noises are explosions. There's some sort of battle raging in the middle of New York city, and _of course_ it had to be near her building.

Fury's words echo in her head as she marches towards the stairwell, shoving some overly-panicked people out of her personal space, and she wonders if this is the kind of situation he meant, if he had known that something, if not this exact thing, was going to happen. He certainly seemed like someone with a lot of secrets, a lot of knowledge. Either way, it doesn't make a difference to her - she still isn't interested in his offer, and whatever's going on outside is _not_ her problem, or her responsibility.

She'll just take herself and her whiskey away somewhere quieter until it settles down, and then she'll come back and get to work. Or maybe go back to bed.

She loses sight of the police officer when she gets into the lobby, scowling as the inhabitants of the building rush past her in their haste to get out into the open, knocking into her shoulder, nearly making her drop her whiskey. She tucks the bottle into her chest, gritting her teeth, shoving at anyone who tries to shove past her, and joins the crowd of people cramming out of the front doors.

Walking out onto the street is like coming out of a soundproofed bubble. Jessica squints against the sunlight, lips parting in further shock, eyes surging over the _massive_ crowds of civilians sprinting in all directions, police officers trying and failing to orchestrate it all in an organised fashion. She can hear the explosions in the not-so-far distance for what they are now - deep and cracking rumbles that shake the ground she stands on. She can hear screaming and yelling and sirens and gunfire, smell smoke and fire and gunpowder, see big clouds of ash billowing into the air.

And, as her gaze lifts higher, face going slack in utter astonishment, whiskey bottle nearly slipping from her grip, she sees a bright pillar of blue energy surging up into the sky, where an immense, suffocating, bone-chilling, god _damn_ space portal is vomiting those bizarre, nonhuman - because they're fucking _aliens_ \- things riding treadmills, and a humongous, floating, space-whale with armour.

If there was ever a moment in Jessica Jones' life where she genuinely wondered if she should lay off the drink and the sleepless nights, it was this, here, now, watching slack-jawed as _aliens invade New York_.

If _this_ is what Fury expects her to get involved with, he is the most moronic man she has ever come across.

The crowd at her back pushes at her, dragging her along with them as they follow the NYPD's instructions, letting the uniforms herd them like spooked cattle in a direction that doesn't yet seem _away_ from the giant goddamn space portal.

There's a sudden change in tone of the shouts and screams at her back, and Jessica shoves a man aside so that she can move out of the way, feet finally in control of her direction again. She stops and turns, spotting the crowd a couple blocks down staring and pointing into the sky, and she lifts her gaze to follow their gestures.

A blur of red and gold soars by overhead, followed closely by three aliens on their flying treadmills. Jessica's eyes squint, her neck twisting to watch them fly past. The aliens' treadmills shoot at Iron Man, and they miss, but-

Jessica flinches, throwing her arm over her head, turning her face away from the blast. She hears the impact, the explosion, feels the rush of heat and air, feels the ground shake as she peeks over her forearm, eyes widening, watching as _her_ apartment building shudders and groans and crumples into itself, the bricks collapsing into a mass of rubble and debris.

It takes a moment for her mind to catch up, remembering the DSLR and laptop on her desk, all the evidence and files from her active cases, her _fucking_ whiskey shelf, and she works her jaw, struggling to contain the eruption of red-hot _fury_ in her chest, her heart pulsing and pushing the searing heat through her veins.

And she spins on her toes, hair whipping against her cheek, hand clenched into a fist, and suddenly her feet are stomping towards the pillar of blue light, towards the middle of the battle, and she wants to _destroy_ whatever blew up her _goddamn_ building.

Her face is hot with anger, lips curled, eyes nearly bursting out their sockets, jaw pushing against the skin of her cheek. She shoves through the crowds, scowling at the people screaming and yelling in her face, ignoring the questioning eyes of the police officers as she comes to the intersection leading directly to the blue pillar, and she sees that it's coming from the top of Stark Tower.

Of course Tony Stark is connected so closely to this - he's connected to everything.

Jessica brings her eyes back to street level, glaring at the rows and rows of police cars between her and a barricade sectioning off the battlefield - a goddamn battlefield in the middle of goddamn New York. For a moment, she considers sticking to her original plan, and she lifts her whiskey bottle to her lips as if her mind is subconsciously trying to convince her that her original plan is the best one. She swallows the alcohol, finger tapping against the glass bottle as it lowers to her side again, and her feet almost turn her around.

But she sees another cluster of aliens soaring through the air a couple blocks down, and she remembers the sound of her building collapsing, imagines the sight of her DSLR and laptop getting crushed in the rubble as the floor above hers caved into her apartment, remembers all of the _goddamn_ work she had stored that she'll take weeks to replace, and she snarls to herself, marching towards Stark Tower.

"Miss, what're you doing?" an officer calls out, turning towards her. "You can't go past this line, you need to follow-"

She tosses him a glare, fiery enough to cut off his sentence, and continues on, climbing up onto a car bonnet. The frame of the car creaks as she steps, lifting her foot to take her up onto the roof and then dipping again as she walks along the trunk, stepping over the gap onto the next car.

There are officers shouting at her from all directions, but her gaze is pinned to the sky, the fire inside her chest only blazing stronger each time she spots one of the aliens who _blew up her goddamn office_. She lifts the bottle of whiskey to her mouth again, taking a healthy swig, her wince turning into a satisfied grimace as she continues on, her footsteps thudding along the tops of the cars.

She's getting closer to the sound of the battle again, and she can even see explosions erupting up the street, aliens surging overhead and shooting down at the police on the ground. Up at the barrier she can see a cluster of officers, and a man in a ridiculously bizarre outfit kneeling above them on a car.

She watches as a car behind him explodes, and a couple of aliens drop on either side of him, moving to attack. Jessica watches them, making sure she pays attention to how they move and fight when she's storming in like this, equipped only with a hangover, a searing rage, and a bottle of whiskey. To be fair to the ridiculous man, he makes quick work of the aliens, and the officers quickly move to relay instructions into their radios.

Jessica kicks at a couple of officers' hands when they reach out to grab at her shins, scowling down at them from her position on top of their cars. She takes another gulp of whiskey, eyes moving to find a path into the battle through the rest of the police between her and the barrier. She moves left, away from the main cluster of officers, jumping lightly from the trunk of one car to the bonnet of the next, and on her next glance up the street, she sees that the ridiculous man has spotted her.

He stands up straight, dropping an alien's weapon from his hand, his other bearing a shield of red, white, and blue, and somewhere in the back of her mind she connects the image to old Captain America merch.

Jessica has no choice but to drop back down to the ground, only a few metres between her and the barrier, her eagerness to beat the shit out of some aliens quickening her step, strengthening her stride.

"Jesus, miss, stop, you can't-" an officer exclaims, rushing to grab at her.

Jessica throws her hand out to shove at his chest, using a little extra strength to send him stumbling back into his peers, knocking them down. "Back off," she snaps, scowling. She lifts her bottle to her mouth again, letting definitely _more_ than one glass-worth pour over her tongue and into her throat. She swallows once, twice, three times, grimacing when she finally pulls the bottle away again.

She wants to waste as little as possible.

"Uh, ma'am, I really think you should turn back," the man in the Captain America get-up says sternly, though what she can see of his face reads confusion and uncertainty.

"What's your deal? Got a hard-on for Uncle Sam?" she asks, frowning up at him as she lifts her chin.

The man gawks at her, glancing at the police officers behind her. Jessica turns her glare back to the street, pushing a barrier aside to let her through. Just let her get her hands on the goddamn aliens who blew up her building.

Someone upstairs must be listening to her. One of the aliens soars around the corner of the building above her, the treadmill tilting down, and she knows it's about to start firing down at them.

Her mouth twists with anger and regret, her grip tightening on her bottle as she pulls her arm back, lining the shot up, and she tosses the bottle up at the alien. The man on the car at her side is shouting at her, moving to grab her as he jumps off the car, but he follows the path of the bottle, pausing in his movements, watching as the projectile surges into the air faster than he clearly expected. It slams into the alien's face and shatters, and the alien is thrown backwards off the flying treadmill, the machine spiralling and crashing into the sidewalk on the other side of the street.

Jessica moves to the side of the car the man stands on, wrapping her fingers around the door, grunting as she wrenches it free from the framework. She turns to face the fallen alien, its hands scrabbling at the shards of glass in its face, and she storms towards it, the car door lifted in the air beside her head. Its face is so unnervingly unhuman, the noises completely and utterly unfamiliar to her, and it lets her think nothing of it as she slams the edge of the door down under its chin, crushing its neck.

She can hear the aliens' machines above her and she looks up, face twisting in renewed anger at the cluster of them soaring towards her. She presses her foot into the chest of the dead alien below her, pulling the door free of its flesh, and secures her hands around its edge, fingers curling where the window should be. She clenches her jaw, taking a few steps towards the cluster of aliens, and turns a three-sixty, building momentum to launch the door into the air at them.

It slams into the front alien's machine, knocking it back and into the alien behind it, and their machines spark and explode, taking them and the other alien flying nearby with them. Jessica scowls and takes a step back as the machines come crashing down to the ground, her eyes flinching a little at the resulting explosion.

"Uh, guys," the man says behind her. "We've got a new player on the field. Looks like a civilian, but she's," he pauses, uncertain, and Jessica rolls her eyes, standing side-on to glare at him. "Something else," he finishes, staring back at her, fingers pressed to the side of his head. They stand there, her glaring, him wide-eyed and bewildered, until he frowns, head cocking. "Is she on our side?" he asks, as if repeating someone.

Jessica's face scrunches around her eyes at the question, at his doubt. "Obviously I'm against the goddamn aliens invading the city, moron," she calls out, arms spreading wide in her disbelief of his hesitation.

An explosion rocks the ground nearby and they both duck away from the rubble sent flying through the air. The man leaps off the car and jogs to Jessica, hovering a hand behind her back to encourage her to move with him out of the open.

"I can hear you laughing, Stark," the man mutters through gritted teeth.

He jogs over to the foot of the building, sticking to the wall until he can peer around the corner. Jessica moves behind him, eyes aimed high to watch the groups of aliens fly overhead.

"What's your name?" the man asks, glancing over his shoulder at her.

"Does that _matter_ right now?" she retorts, forehead creasing.

"I need to call you something if you're gonna fight with us," he persists.

"How about 'hey, you'," she deadpans, giving him an empty smile when he turns again to frown at her incredulously.

She hears him exhale sharply, his head tilting in compliance, as he peeks around the corner again. "Alright, what exactly are your abilities?" he asks.

Jessica's face slackens with disbelief, her eyes rolling at his insistence of familiarising himself. "Alcoholism and being an asshole," she snaps, and she runs out from their cover, ignoring his shout of alarm, vision tunneling on a cluster of aliens who have dropped down to the street round the corner.

She wrenches a stop sign out of the concrete of the sidewalk, pulls her hand back for an overhand toss, and hurls it towards the group, watching as it impales the two standing close to each other. The other two turn to face her, screeching, but the man's shield soars towards them from her right, hitting the first in the throat, bouncing into the others' face, before rebounding back towards the man. He catches it mid-leap off an overturned car, using it to protect his shoulder as he barrels into the first alien, and then he plants his feet and twists to throw his elbow into the others' chest, knocking it onto its back. He spins back to the first, throwing a punch that knocks it down too, and jumps to the second, jamming the shield down into its throat.

Jessica nods at him, allowing some respect to show on her face. "You look stupid, but at least you pack a punch."

The man sighs, shoulders slumping in exasperation. "You gonna fight with us?" he asks, jogging back to her.

Jessica winces. "Using the loosest possible definition of 'with'," she agrees. She might as well stick with this man and Stark if they're in charge of the defense against the invasion, just so she knows what's going on.

"Alright, come on," he says, waving her along with his shield as he starts running back towards Stark Tower. "I'm Steve Rogers, by the way," he adds over his shoulder.

Jessica frowns as she runs along behind him, wind blowing under the sides of her jacket. "Wait, was that not the original guy's name? The first Captain America?"

"There's only been one," he says. "It's a long story."

"I don't wanna know," she mutters, shaking her head.

This is all _very_ different to her normal. She really shouldn't let her temper get the better of her like this; it leads her into all sorts of weird and awful situations.


	3. Space Crocodiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jessica judges the Avengers, does a little shepherding, and has her first interaction with Tony Stark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think so far!

They run through the rubble, dodging more explosions and blasts, vaulting over debris and cars. Rogers looks to a section of road up ahead, where it seems a large group of aliens are targeting. He leaps onto the back of a car, bounds up to the roof, jumps to a chunk of building, and soars over the railing into the street. Jessica grits her teeth, purses her lips, and wonders what the hell she's gotten herself into, but she follows behind him.

There are two more people, a man and woman - wearing plain black suits, rather than anything as obnoxious as Rogers' costume - fighting off the group of aliens. The woman has an alien's weapon, and the man has-

"Is that a _bow and arrow_?" Jessica snaps, expression contorted in disbelief.

The man's face is hard with concentration, but he scowls defensively at her, swinging his weapon to shoot an arrow past her head. She watches it embed itself in the face of an alien coming up behind her.

She looks round at him again, one eyebrow furrowed, the other lifting, giving him a confused smirk. "Uh, okay."

She spots movement in her peripheral vision, a couple of aliens advancing on the two newcomers from behind. Jessica stomps to the overturned taxi between the humans and aliens and kicks her foot out, slamming it into the taxi to send it scraping across the ground into the aliens. The one on the right is blasted in the chest by the redheaded woman, and the one on the left gets an arrow in the head.

Jessica's head swivels on her neck when she hears something cracking and zapping, eyes finding _lightning_ piercing three aliens by Rogers. She follows the fork of lightning into the air, watching as a man with strange armour, a red cape, flowing blonde hair, and a hammer in his grip, stumbles a landing where the aliens had been before he fried them.

This is definitely _massively_ different to Jessica's normal.

Rogers walks to the hunky hammer-man, taking a moment to adjust his shield. "What's the story upstairs?" 

Jessica hangs back from them all, regarding them with guarded confusion. The man and woman with the least-ridiculous outfits walk past her, moving further along the street. The road is littered with small fires, destroyed vehicles, and chunks of rubble from the surrounding buildings. Dust and ash hang in the air, explosions echoing in the distance, the frightened cries of civilians bouncing off the emptying buildings towards her, and Jessica scowls at the horror of it all. Under her rage, confusion, regret, and reluctance, there is a part of her that is truly horrified by the fact that humans really _aren't_ alone in the universe, and their new visitors aren't the least bit friendly.

"The power surrounding the cube is impenetrable," the hammer-man replies, his voice deep and accented.

A cluster of aliens fly past overhead, and the two men look up into the air. The redheaded woman looks over at them.

"How do we do this?" she asks.

"As a team," Rogers replies instantly.

Jessica scoffs quietly to herself, pulling her lips into her mouth and looking away to hide her amusement. The guy doesn't realise how ridiculous he looks, and how it makes everything he says hilarious.

"I have unfinished business with Loki," hammer-man says.

Jessica crosses her arms over her chest, kicking a small chunk of rubble across the ground, nearly rolling her eyes at the fact that someone is called _Loki_. The people she's got herself caught up with are the weirdest she's ever come across, and she's a P.I., dealing with _all_ kinds of weird and horrible.

"Yeah, well, get in line," the bow-and-arrow-man retorts.

"Save it," Rogers says, walking towards him. "Loki's gonna keep the fight focused on us, and that's what we need. Without him, these things could run wild."

Jessica watches the others as they all turn to face Rogers, lining up in front of him, establishing him as their leader.

"We get Stark up top, he's gonna need us-" Rogers begins, but he cuts off, looking behind him as a dishevelled man drives up on a shitty motorcycle.

The four weirdos move to greet the man and Jessica sighs, her head dropping back, glaring up into the sky. Maybe she should just wander off and do her own thing, but now that there are several people here, she knows it's probably best to just work with them, especially when there seems to be some sort of plan going on in the background of the battle.

She drops her chin to her chest, her arms falling back to her sides, and reluctantly moves to walk towards the forming group, eyeing up this new arrival who really doesn't seem threatening in the slightest.

"So," he says in greeting. "This all seems horrible."

Jessica's head tilts - there's something about him that's ringing a bell in her memory. His eyes meet hers as she trails along behind the other four and he frowns, mouth moving, but the redheaded woman speaks and distracts his attention.

"I've seen worse," she says, and there's something in her voice that makes Jessica frown, eyes narrowing, wondering at the implication.

"Sorry," the man replies.

"No, we could use.. a little worse," the woman assures.

"What the hell?" Jessica mutters to herself, mouth twisting in utter bewilderment.

Hammer-man turns to frown at her side-on, clearly having heard her. "Who are you?" he asks, tilting his hammer towards her.

"None of your business, blondie," she retorts.

The redhead glances at Jessica, gesturing a hand lazily as she looks to hammer-man. "She was one of the potential recruits for the team."

Jessica crosses her arms again. "So, this _is_ that stupid team Fury talked about," she grunts, kicking herself for ending up doing what he wanted.

To be fair, she's doing it for very different reasons than he had predicted. And, also, she isn't actually doing _exactly_ what he wanted, because she's not joining the team, nor is she interested still. She's just going to be present _alongside_ the team, beating the shit out of the asshole aliens who have destroyed her office and work.

"Stark, we got him," Rogers says, fingers pressed to his head again. They've all obviously got earpieces in to stay connected during the battle - just another difference to prove that she's not a part of the team. "Just like you said."

Jessica watches the five teammates turn their gazes to the sky and she follows their eyes, squinting, the corner of her mouth pulling into her cheek as she sighs through her nose. She wishes she had just taken her whiskey bottle and went where the police were directing her - that way she'd not be surrounded by costumed nerds and she'd still have a goddamn drink in her hand.

And she wouldn't be watching Stark's Iron Man suit soaring round a building and up the street towards them with the immense, armoured, space-whale taking out the corner of the building as it chases after him.

"Aw, crap," Jessica mutters, regret creasing her forehead.

"I-I don't see how that's a party," the redheaded woman says.

Stark flies low to the ground, encouraging the space-whale - which kind of looks more like a crocodile, now that it's slithering through the air towards her - downwards, its underside crashing through abandoned cars and buses and trucks, churning the tarmac of the road.

And the team just _stands there_. Jessica's lips part, eyes widening in irritated disbelief, eyebrows lifting into her hairline.

The new arrival turns to face the space-crocodile, walking forwards on his own, and Jessica tosses her disbelieving look around her, hands lifting into the air in utter confusion and shock at the scene.

"Dr Banner," Rogers calls, and Jessica freezes, eyes narrowing through her bewildered expression, gaze fixed on Banner's purple shirt. "Now might be a really good time for you to get angry."

"Jesus christ," Jessica groans quietly, hands slapping to her hips. The guy is Doctor Bruce Banner. _The_ Bruce Banner.

"That's my secret, Captain," Banner replies, glancing over his shoulder at them nonchalantly, as if there isn't a humongous alien monster surging along the ground towards him. "I'm always angry."

He turns back to the monster, his body suddenly bulging and expanding, his skin turning green, his clothes ripping and tearing and falling away from his body, and Jessica gapes as the Hulk turns and slams a giant green fist into the space-crocodile's nose, denting its armour, halting its movements, his feet slipping backwards with the effort of it all. And the back-end of the crocodile, leveraged by the sudden stop in its momentum, swings up into the air, ready to tumble over itself and come crashing down on top of them all.

But Jessica hears the thrusters of the Iron Man suit in the air behind her, and a small missile surges at the space-crocodile, embedding itself into some flesh when a piece of armour falls away.

"Shit," Jessica hisses, throwing herself behind an overturned car at her side just as the explosion blasts overhead, flames and metal and flesh surging over the top of the car. The ground shakes from the force of it all, the massive carcass slamming into the road, sliding off the edge, and crashing down onto the street below.

Jessica presses a hand to the side of the car, still frowning, her mouth hanging open, and she pushes back onto her feet, watching the last of the crocodile's body slip off the road. A surge in noise draws her gaze to the buildings above them, mouth shutting to curl her lips at the aliens clinging to the walls, shrieking down at the humans. The Hulk lets out an almighty roar in challenge and Jessica turns to watch the team gather into a circle a few metres away, Stark slowly lowering to the ground in his Iron Man suit to join the ranks. Jessica doesn't conceal the judgement on her face as she watches them, her hand lifting to wipe some dirt off her jacket, but when Rogers casts a glance in her direction, an invitation in his eyes, she averts her gaze skyward, avoiding the question.

But the sight that greets her in the sky is potentially somewhat worse than the gathering of nerds in front of her. "You've _gotta_ be kidding me," she grunts, shoulders slumping.

A whole new swarm of aliens are surging through the portal in the sky, along with two more massive fucking space-crocodiles.

"Call it, Captain," Stark says, his voice tinny and muffled in his suit.

"Alright, listen up," Rogers says sharply, drawing Jessica's attention back to the group. "Until we can close that portal, our priority is containment. Barton, I want you on that roof, eyes on everything - call out patterns and strays. Stark, you got the perimeter - anything gets more than three blocks out, you turn it back, or you turn it to ash."

Bow-and-arrow-man looks over to Stark. "You gonna give me a lift?"

"Right," Stark says, marching over. "Better clench up, Legolas."

Jessica's mouth twitches, watching Stark grab a hold of Barton's back to carry the man with him when his thrusters launch him into the air.

"Thor, you gotta try and bottle-neck that portal," Rogers continues. "Slow 'em down. You got the lightning - light the bastards up."

 _Thor_ \- Jessica tuts incredulously at the name - nods, starting to spin his hammer at a wild speed, and he lifts his hand into the air, something about the hammer sending him soaring into the sky too.

Rogers looks to the redhead. "You and me, we stay here on the ground and keep the fighting here. And, Hulk-" The giant green man turns to him with a grunt and a smirk. "Smash," Rogers says, pointing upwards.

The Hulk grins and bends at the knees, pushing up to throw himself into the air, curving towards the building to attack the aliens climbing its walls.

"And, uh, hey, you," Rogers says, his voice still stern and authoritative, but somewhat uncertain. Jessica's face drops in disbelief that he actually called her what she said as a joke, an eyebrow lifting at him. "Your help would be appreciated on the ground with us."

"Well, I can't go anywhere else," she shrugs, an incredulous chuckle underlying the words at the absurdity of the interaction.

" _Stop_ laughing, Stark," Rogers hisses, his fingers pressing to his head, turning his face away from Jessica. "She told me to call her that, what was I supposed to do?"

The redhead catches Jessica's eyes, and the woman smirks at her, shaking her head. "Men," she says simply.

Jessica's eyebrows pull in, still guarded and wary, but she can't help returning the smirk.

Alien bodies start dropping to the ground, Hulk tossing them from the buildings, and Jessica steps back, flinching slightly. This kind of fight is so beyond her normal it's absurd, but she's in it now and she knows that a part of her - small as it would be - would feel some kind of guilt if she walked away now. So she sighs through her teeth, cracks her neck, and remembers her building crumbling to the ground, recalling the anger that blazed through her veins at the sight.

A group of aliens shriek at them from Jessica's right, and she watches Rogers and the woman sprint forward, leaping into action without hesitation; but Jessica's attention is drawn left, where another group of aliens are advancing on their position. Jaw clenching, she stomps over to a nearby car and bends at her knees, fingers reaching to grab the bottom of the car's bodywork. The panels crumple beneath her strength, her fingers breaking through to get a decent grip, and her face scrunches with effort as she throws herself back up, wrenching the car with her, flipping it over and onto the oncoming group of aliens.

The remainder of the group turn to fire at her and she ducks, running to an overturned car with its door hanging open, ripping it from the hinges to use as a shield. The blasts from their weapons thump into the car door, pushing it towards her face and shoulder, the window smashing at her hips. She runs towards them, peeking round the edge of the door to get a sense of their positions, and throws the door at two of them, knocking them away. She turns quickly to another at her side, blocking its long weapon when it swings it at her, and throws her fist out to punch it hard in the chest, sending it flying into the railing behind it.

The next one shoots right next to her head and she just manages to dodge it, reaching out to grab it by the shoulder and neck, wrenching it down to slam her knee into its face. She spins, tossing the alien away over the side of the road, and stumbles forward when another one jumps on her back. Aggravation burns in her chest, her expression hardening, and she reaches her hand over her head to get a grip of the alien piggybacking her, hauling it over her head and down onto the ground in front of her. She kicks at it, watching it skid and tumble across the road until it slams into another car head-first.

She hears the machines coming, but it doesn't give her enough time to react before they fire at the ground, a blast hitting next to her feet, the explosion slamming into her and sending her hurtling backwards through the air. She grunts as she hits the ground again, tumbling backwards over herself, the rubble on the ground tearing at her jeans. Renewed anger surges through her, her head snapping up to find something to take it out on, and she spots an alien taking aim at the redheaded woman, whose back is to the alien, oblivious as she reloads her gun.

Jessica grits her teeth, grunting with effort as she scrambles to her feet and sprints towards the alien, arms reaching out to tackle it around its waist. They both go toppling over the railing and down to the street below. She twists so that her shoulder takes the brunt of the fall and her hand comes up to protect her head. Pain bursts in her shoulder and punches a shout up her throat, her hip slamming into the ground at the same time. The alien is still moving in her grip, so she hauls herself onto her hands and knees and throws her fist into its face, giving it extra strength to feel bones crunching under her knuckles.

She pants heavily as she stumbles to her feet, eyes searching the chaos around her for signs of more aliens. At the moment, she's alone, and she takes the opportunity to clutch her aching shoulder, rolling it to make sure it's not broken, straining to replenish the air in her lungs. Explosions are still rumbling through the city, blasts shooting from the aliens' flying treadmills on every street, by the sounds of things. She can hear the echo of the Hulk's roars from somewhere up high, spots flashes of lightning as Thor uses whatever he uses to fry their enemies, every so often hearing the Iron Man suit tearing through the sky, thrusters blasting at the aliens, and she looks at herself in her leather jacket and grey, hooded jumper, at her loose jeans and scrappy boots, and she finds a hollow amusement in how little she fits in with it all.

Before she can stop herself, she wonders what she would have done, whether she would have joined the team, if she had never been kidnapped and controlled.

The shadows from the road above her start to stretch out to her feet, whispers calling from their depths, and Jessica turns away from them, her ribs closing around her lungs, her throat shrinking, her feet taking her into a run. Her face is contorted in a sudden desperation, her breathing ragged and strained, her arms pumping at her sides with fists clenched so hard, her nails are cutting into her palms, and she _despises_ how afraid she is, how much of a coward it makes her feel, but the further she runs, the quieter the whispers are, so she sprints down the street, trying to convince herself she's just making sure there are no vulnerable civilians in the battlefield.

It actually comes as a relief, then, when she rounds a corner and finds a group of maybe eighteen civilians crouched on the sidewalk, straining to keep out of sight. Jessica lets her fear and panic morph into exasperation and irritation.

"What the hell are you people still doing here?" she shouts, running towards them.

They flinch at her voice, wild eyes searching the street and sky frantically until they spot her. Since she's not recognisable like Iron Man, her presence brings little-to-no comfort.

"You gotta get outta here, come on," she says loudly, using her voice to cover up the whispers at the back of her mind, still trying to claw their way in. The loud bluntness of her tone seems to work for the civilians too, and they cling to each other, jogging out to meet her.

She waves them back onto the street she was running along, directing them further down it and away from Stark Tower. She has to keep shouting encouragement, because they keep faltering and hesitating, crying and screaming, and she really wonders if this is what it's like to herd a flock of spooked sheep.

And then they all skid to a halt, shouting out with fear, and Jessica runs to the front to see what's stopped them. Beyond the intersection ahead, there's a huge group of alien infantry, definitely too many for Jessica to take on alone while trying to look out for these idiots. She curses to herself quietly, encouraging them all to get onto the sidewalk and stay tight to the buildings. She moves to the corner of the intersection, glancing down the street, making sure there are no enemies at their left. Between the intersection and the group of aliens down the street ahead, she can see an alley, but she doesn't want to pen the civilians in somewhere and make the aliens' job easier.

"Alright, come on," she hisses, waving them after her as she steps left into the intersection, gaze pinned to the aliens ahead to make sure they aren't noticing them.

She takes them into the empty street on their left, jogging through the overturned cars and flaming chunks of rubble, noticing the same alley connecting to this street, too, on her right. She realises, when a new space-crocodile comes crashing through the corner of the building at the next intersection, that they're quite lucky to have that alley nearby.

"Get in there, now!" she yells, shoving the civilians towards the alley.

The space-crocodile lets out a terrifying, shrieking bellow, its nose angling down towards the street, towards Jessica, and her stomach drops.

"God _damnit_ ," she mutters, shoulders slumping.

They can't go back the way they came, because that takes them to the epicentre of the battle. They can't keep going the way they were heading, because there's a huge group of aliens who will overwhelm Jessica. And, now, they can't go down the previously perfectly-empty street, because there's a giant fucking alien monster swimming through the air towards them, rows of massive teeth glinting in the sunlight as the jaw snaps wildly.

Jessica doesn't really know what she's supposed to do about this. She knows she's strong, but she's got absolutely no idea how much strength it takes to bring a beast like this down. It's also quite high up, and while she may have flown once or twice back when she actually felt grateful for her powers, she's never done anything more than a big jump in nearly two years, and the last big jump she did was months ago. Her powers don't just come back to her straight away after such a long period of neglect.

So, she shifts from foot to foot, staring anxiously up at the goliath beast, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides, and she waits for one of the others to make a miraculous appearance and deal with it instead. She actually kind-of wishes she had one of their stupid earpieces now so she could call on one of them.

But the space-crocodile is getting closer, and no one has turned up, and Jessica knows she needs to do something within the next five seconds or the beast is gonna slither up and swallow her whole.

"Goddamnit!" she snaps, furious with the situation, with herself, with the civilians, with the nerds in their stupid costumes, with the aliens that _destroyed her building_ , and she runs to the sidewalk, hands wrapping around the thick, metal pole of a streetlight. She grits her teeth, the metal bending under her fingers as she hauls it up out of the concrete of the sidewalk. She balances it on her shoulder, stomping back out into the middle of the street, facing the beast head-on, and she moves the pole downwards so that there is more of it stretching out under her grip.

The beast roars at her again, jaw gaping wide, and Jessica bares her own teeth as her knees bend and she summons all of her strength, letting out an enraged growl.

She has no idea whether this will work or not, but she makes a wild guess at when the beast comes within jumping range, and she leaps into the air with all of her strength, wind soaring past her face, feet kicking in her mild panic. She lifts the post of the streetlight up above her head, her grip firm and solid, and she reaches the peak of her jump at a height just above the beast's head, wondering where this good luck has come from all of a sudden as she starts to soar downwards, bending her knees to lift her feet to a good position as she hurtles towards the beast's head. She leans into the momentum of the jump, drawing on as much strength as she can, fingers tightening around the pole, and she lands awkwardly on the beast's head, hauling the pole down over her head and impaling it into the armour in between her feet.

The beast roars and starts to climb higher in the air. Jessica stumbles forward, her chest hitting the pole, and she grips onto it desperately as her feet threaten to slip on the uneven plates of armour. She shouts out, clutching the pole tighter, straining to push it down further into the beast's head. The pole stops suddenly, hitting something solid - potentially bone - so Jessica pushes off her feet, hands still securely around the pole to anchor herself, and _shoves_ with the full weight of her body, her muscles giving everything they have, and she hears something crunch beneath her, the pole shuddering as it embeds itself deeper into the beast's head.

And suddenly the monster tilts, and Jessica's feet finally lose what little grip they had, and she slips off the head of the beast into the open air.

She lets out a clipped yell before she clamps her jaw shut, arms spreading wide in an attempt to straighten out and slow her fall. There's too much air rushing into her lungs and nothing is coming back out again, and her heart is hammering against her ribcage, thudding loudly in her ears as her mind scrambles to remember something, _anything_ , about how to fucking fly.

But the ground is hurtling towards her and she realises that she's probably about to die, splatting on a street in New York in the middle of an alien invasion that she only ran into because she can't control her goddamn temper.

And then something hard and solid slams into her back, and an arm covered in red and gold plates, scratched and battered but firm and sure, wraps around her ribs, crushing her back into the chest of the Iron Man suit above her.

"Need a ride?" Stark's tinny voice quips at the back of her head, and the air in Jessica's lungs bursts up her throat in one big whoosh, her face slack with relief and shock.

Stark flips them over so the ground is at their backs now, soaring up and away from the spot on the street where Jessica would have become a pancake. She stares down at it, her mind reeling, thoughts still scrambled and focused on remembering how to fly even though she doesn't need to, now.

"Uh, maybe loosen your grip a little, hey, you," Stark says tensely, and Jessica realises her fingers are digging into his forearm so hard she's about to dent the panels.

"Shit," she snaps, doing as he suggested, but keeping her fingers wrapped around his arm just in case his grip falters.

He carries her up to one of the shorter buildings of the street, further down from where she'd attacked the beast. As soon as her feet touch the roof, she steps away from his suit, pushing his arm away from her body, gaze searching for the beast and finding it buried deep in a building up near the intersection, dead.

"Did you seriously take that thing down with a _streetlight_?" Stark asks, his voice still muffled and tinny in his helmet, his suit whirring as he walks up to stand next to her.

Jessica's forehead pulls in, glancing at his glowing blue eye-slits. "Sorry I don't have a billion dollars to make some glorified onesie to do the job for me," she snaps, still reeling with shock and, now, embarrassment.

"Okay, _wow_ ," Stark laughs indignantly. "I was gonna compliment you, but now I'm just gonna have to go and take one down myself," he shrugs, throwing a hand out in frustration. "Can't have a stray showing the team up!"

"A stray?" she repeats, feeling a little indignant herself.

"Yup, bye-bye!" he sing-songs, the thrusters on his palms and feet suddenly launching him into the air. "Good luck getting back down!"

Jessica grits her teeth, scowling at him as he flies off somewhere else. She stomps to the edge of the roof, leans down to place her hand flat on the edge, and vaults over. She falls to the sidewalk below, knees bending when her feet slam into the ground, and she honestly wants nothing more than to be sat at her desk with a bottle of whiskey in her hand.


	4. Near-Death Experiences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jessica is reliably unsociable, and gets moderately manhandled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to anyone reading/bookmarking/subscribing. I hope you're enjoying the story!

Jessica takes a breath when she lands on the sidewalk, her nerves still alight with the fear of falling to her death and shock of Stark's miraculous save. She grits her teeth, annoyed by how embarrassed she feels about needing assistance when she _has_ actually previously been able to fly, and annoyed because she knows _why_ she's so out of touch with her abilities. That's what neglecting and avoiding them does, she supposes.

Her eyes are drawn out of morbid - and almost panicked - curiosity to the carcass of the space-crocodile she's made in the middle of a building in New York City, but she starts to move down the street towards the mouth of the alley, her feet quickening into a run. Just as she reaches the opening, she sees the aliens that had been grouped up around the corner come into the intersection, investigating the death of the beast.

She slips into the alley, immediately lifting a finger to her lips when the group of civilians turn to her with wide eyes. They're all still terrified and confused, but there are a couple who are gaping at Jessica like they've just seen Jesus Christ walk up to them, and it makes her immensely uncomfortable. She turns her back on their gazes, peeking out into the street at the aliens, who are now advancing up the street with their weapons drawn.

Her face scrunches in frustration and she turns away from the street, jogging quietly into the alley and peering round a corner to the right. The awed civilians don't bother to hide their expressions still, and Jessica grits her teeth at the whispers that crawl up the back of her neck in response. She pushes her tongue uncomfortably harder into the roof of her mouth, her throat itching to shout loudly to block out the sound of the whispers, her fingers clenching in their eagerness to attack something and release the tension in her shoulders.

She wants to close her eyes against the mental ambush, to take a moment to gather herself and shake it all off, but part of her is scared of what she'll find in the darkness of her eyelids, and the other part knows she just doesn't have the time. So she focuses on the street to her right that the alley leads onto, where the group of aliens had initially hidden, and she makes sure she can't see any walking past the opening.

Satisfied, she glances over her shoulder at the group of civilians and waves at them to follow her. She jogs quietly towards the mouth of the alley, breath caught in her throat with apprehension and adrenaline, just waiting for the aliens to pop out and destroy them. She pokes her head into the street, looking left and right. The aliens have all moved into the other street. She waves to the civilians again and they run out onto the street, turning left. She herds them through the carnage of the battle, having them hide when the aliens soar past overhead, dealing with the small clusters straggling on the outskirts of the battle, looking for vulnerable targets like her sheep. And, _finally_ , she sees the flashing blue and red lights.

She ignores their sentiments, turning her gaze back towards Stark Tower, which now only has the 'A' left hanging. The blue pillar is still surging into the sky, aliens still flying from the portal, and she knows the others are still fighting to protect the city. She glances at the civilians now being guided by the police officers, mutters a quiet " _Goddamnit_ ," and starts to run back to the centre of the battle.

And, as she does, she sees the Iron Man suit soaring towards the Tower, supporting a missile almost the same size as him on his back, and he's pushing upwards. Her eyebrows furrow, arms pumping at her sides as her boots slap along the street rhythmically. Stark is carrying this missile upwards, pushing higher and higher, and she knows he's heading for the portal. It must be a weapon of his own that he needs to manually deliver to the source of the aliens, or maybe it's something sent by the military, something that would have endangered the city. Either way, the man's seconds away from flying through a portal into _space_ , and the knowledge makes her head spin.

Tony Stark going into space wouldn't have been much of a surprise, considering his intellect and gadgets - if anyone could return to the moon, it'd be him - but doing it like _this_?

She keeps running, watching as his suit disappears through the portal. She passes the monster she brought down, but her gaze is fixed to the portal, legs burning, arms pumping. A cluster of aliens run out of a street, but they all suddenly fall limp to the ground. Jessica spares them a startled glance, confused. But she's nearing the road she had been on when the team gathered. She runs up to it, pushes off her feet, and leaps into the air. Her hands grasp the railings at the side of the road and she vaults over, her feet skidding on the dust and debris when they hit the ground.

Rogers and Thor are stood on the street, staring up at the portal. Jessica follows their gaze, eyes widening at the sheer magnitude of the explosion in the black expanse. That must have been some goddamn missile Stark threw at them.

"Close it," Rogers says quietly.

Jessica glances at him, frowning, and then a deep _thwimp_ sounds from high up, drawing her attention to the portal. The blue pillar of energy shoots up into the portal and stops, the sky around it churning with light and a crack of thunder. The portal starts shrinking immediately, the sky sewing itself back together. And, just before it disappears altogether, Stark's suit slips through. Although, he seems to be unconscious, judging by the limp flailing of his body as he falls through the air, dropping towards the city.

"Son of a gun," Rogers mutters.

Stark's suit continues to hurtle downwards, his legs and arms bent from the force of the air.

"The dude's unconscious," Jessica says, gesturing pointlessly at his body, looking to the men on the street.

Roger's smile fades, his brow furrowing. Thor clenches his jaw, starting to twirl his hammer in his hand. But, just as Stark's body falls past the top of the building above them, there's an animalistic roar, and the Hulk launches through the air to catch Stark. He slams into the building, hand gouging into the wall to slow himself down, and then he throws himself down to the street, tucking Stark into his chest, ensuring his back is what crashes over the bonnet of a destroyed car and skids along the ground.

Rogers and Thor immediately hurry over, Jessica walking behind them. The Hulk throws Iron Man off his chest onto the ground and gets to his feet, leaning on his fists to hunch over Stark's body. Thor rolls Stark onto his back, breaking the face of his helmet away and tossing it aside. Jessica stands a few paces behind Rogers, watching as the man ducks down to try and hear something. His hand slips over Stark's chest, over the unlit power source, staring down at the man's unmoving face, and he sits back on his heels, shoulders slumping.

Jessica's lips part as she stares down at Stark and frowns. The man saved her life, has just single-handedly destroyed the place the aliens were coming from, sacrificing himself to protect the city. The media has always portrayed him in a way that highlights his egotistical, selfish, apathetic ways, but she has just watched him give his life to end an alien invasion, and she squirms with guilt that she now owes him a debt she can never repay.

The Hulk rises to his feet, hands clenching, muscles twitching, letting out soft grunts as he breathes heavily. And then, with a shake of his head, he lets out a clipped bellow and Stark's eyes shoot open, gasping for breath, and he shouts out with panic and fright.

The Hulk roars again, a deep, terrifying, surge of a bellow, pounding his chest. And Stark lays there on the ground, barely lifting his head, wide eyes glancing around him.

"What the hell," he pants. He looks up at the men hovering over him. "What just happened? Please tell me nobody kissed me."

Jessica stares at him, eyebrows lifted, noting the humour he's utilising to cover the blind panic in his eyes when he woke.

Rogers pants, looking into the distance. "We won."

Stark sighs, his head lowering to the ground as his eyes close. "Alright, yay," he cheers weakly. "Alright, good job, guys. Let's just not come in tomorrow," he strains, shifting his body as if double-checking everything still works. "Let's just take a day. Have you ever tried shawarma?" he asks, gesturing at the Hulk. "There's a shawarma joint about two blocks from here. I don't know what it is, but I wanna try it."

Jessica can't help the twitch of her mouth.

"We're not finished, yet," Thor tells him.

The men look over at him. "And then shawarma after?" Stark suggests.

"Okay, Stark," Rogers indulges, reaching a hand out. Stark grasps it, accepting the help to rise to his feet again. "Let's go get Loki."

"Hey!" a voice calls out, and they turn to see Barton running over. "Did you just go into space?" he asks, feigning a casual tone as he looks at Stark.

"Yeah," Stark replies on a sharp exhale.

"Romanoff's on the roof," Rogers says, nodding at the top of the building.

"I'll get her," Stark offers, igniting his thrusters and taking off.

Jessica watches him go, catching the hint of tension in his eager tone, blinking at the suddenness of his actions, and frowns a little. Thor moves to Rogers, lifting his eyebrows in a question, and Rogers nods, securing his grip of his shield, squaring his shoulders. Thor gets a grip of Rogers' suit and starts swinging his hammer, soaring up in the air towards the Tower.

"You going up?" Barton asks, and Jessica turns to realise he's speaking to her.

She lifts an eyebrow, bitterness twitching at her lips. "Uh, no, I think-"

But a giant hand grabs her around the waist, pulling her against immense muscle, and suddenly the Hulk leaps into the air towards the roof of a building, carrying her with him. Indignation crumples her expression, shouting out her protests, but the giant, green man just grunts above her head, leaping to a higher building and working his way up. And then, suddenly, he's leaping through the air towards the landing pad of Stark Tower, and Stark himself is flying back down to the street to collect Barton, glancing at them with amused bewilderment.

Jessica stumbles away from the Hulk as soon as he removes his grip on her, glaring at him over her shoulder. "What the hell, man?" she snaps, furious. The battle is done - she really has no need to be here anymore.

"Strong lady help," he grunts at her, stomping past her into the lavish, yet damaged, room.

" _No_ , strong lady go-" she starts, but she cuts off before she says "home", because she suddenly remembers it's gone.

She scowls, moving to the edge of the landing pad, searching for a building she can jump down to. But Stark soars up to land at her side, Barton secure in his grip, and they both glance at her questioningly.

"One near-death experience a day, please, it's company policy," Stark says. "And we've already broken it, with your stunt earlier and then-" he cuts off, clamping his mouth shut, gesturing vaguely above them.

Jessica frowns at him, watching the twitch in his eye before he plasters a tense smile on his face. "Look, I did my part," she says, shoving her hands in her jacket pockets. "I don't need to be here for whatever this is."

"Loki's dangerous," Barton cuts in. "We might need the extra hands."

Jessica grinds her teeth, exhaling sharply through her nostrils. "Fine," she bites out.

She follows them into the room, watching them crowd round the broken form crawling out of a body-shaped hole in the floor. She stands between Rogers and Thor, a few steps back, waiting for the black-haired, strangely-clothed man to notice them. And when he does, he gives them such a casual, bashful remark, that Jessica's face curls in disbelief.

"If it's all the same to you," he says, his voice accented like Thor's. "I'll have that drink now."

The Hulk growls sharply.

"Get him on his feet," Stark instructs. "We can all stand around posing up a storm later." He starts to walk away from the group, as Rogers and Thor move to restrain Loki. "By the way, feel free to clean up!" Stark quips.

"Who gets the, uh, magic wand?" the redhead, Romanoff, asks, carrying a golden sceptre.

"Strike Team is coming to secure it," Rogers replies.

"Stark, I'm breaking into your bar!" Barton calls. Jessica turns to watch him stride to the personal bar on her left and her feet follow automatically, suddenly parched, lamenting the remnants of drink that had been in her bottle when she had tossed it at the alien.

"Hands off the top shelf!" Stark calls back.

Jessica follows Barton behind the bar, catching the caution in his sidelong glance at her as he reaches for a bottle of liquor on the top shelf. She reaches for some glasses, her lip curling at the obnoxiously fancy engravings along their bases.

"You drink?" Barton asks, as if her actions don't tell him enough.

"Extensively," she replies, setting the glasses in front of him as he pulls the top off the bottle.

She listens to the slosh of the liquid as he pours their drinks, her eyes finding the group of men moving into the room. Her brow furrows slightly, eyes narrowing as she looks them over.

"We can take that off your hands," a bald man offers Romanoff, beady eyes cold behind his glasses as his lips curve into a polite smile.

"By all means," Romanoff replies, handing the sceptre over. "Be careful with that thing," she adds as she walks over to the bar, reaching a hand out for one of the glasses.

"Unless you want your mind erased," Barton says, handing the glass to his colleague, lifting his own to his lips. "And not in a fun way." Jessica stares at him, frowning, and knocks her own drink back in a single motion.

"We promise to be careful," another man replies, wearing a tight shirt and fingerless gloves.

Jessica's head cocks at him, finger tapping her glass. "You sure these guys are trustworthy?" she asks quietly.

Barton and Romanoff glance at her, their faces guarded. "They're SHIELD," Romanoff answers, giving a slight shrug of her shoulder. "They're trained to hide things. You're just not used to them."

Jessica's eyes narrow, her gaze slipping back to the group of men packing away the sceptre. Their postures are hard and tense, as if always expecting an attack, wary eyes flicking to the team in the room, glancing at each other, keeping an eye on their exits. While it might just be their training at the hands of SHIELD, her untrusting instincts are making her doubt there isn't something more to their caution.

"On my way down to coordinate search and rescue," Rogers says, fingers pressed to the side of his head, as he marches purposefully past them.

Jessica glances at Stark as he wanders back into view, his suit gone, huffing when he sees the liquor Barton chose to open. She hears Rogers repeating his last sentence, her eyes flicking to where she sees another version of him standing at Thor's side, hands restrained. And then a wave of green blooms from his torso across his body, leaving Loki standing in his place, his face scrunched in disbelief.

"I mean, honestly, how _do_ you keep your-" the man demands.

But Thor presses something to his mouth, the tech expanding to cover Loki's jaw like a muzzle. "Shut up," Thor bites out.

Stark, Thor, Loki, and some of the soldiers in the room move to the elevator, the former setting a briefcase on the floor and settling onto it comfortably. The Hulk stomps over, looking to join, but he's met with enthused rejection.

"Woah, woah," Thor says loudly.

"Hey, hey, buddy!" Stark snaps, the two of them lifting hands to stop the Hulk. "What do you think? Maximum occupancy has been reached," Stark explains, the elevator doors sliding closed.

"Take the stairs," Thor adds.

"Yeah," Stark agrees. And he notices the Hulk building up his anger. " _Stop_ , stop!"

The doors close over and the Hulk punches into them, letting out a frustrated roar. He clenches his fists, breathing heavily, and turns away. "'Take the stairs.' _Hate_ the stairs," he grumbles, stomping off.

"Another drink?" Barton offers, holding the bottle out.

Jessica shakes her bewilderment away, frowning, jaw clenched, and holds her glass out to him. "Thanks," she mutters, watching the liquid slosh around the glass as he pours.

"So, you didn't realise this was what Fury was trying to recruit you for when you walked into this mess?" Romanoff asks her, watching her curiously over the lip of her glass.

"I wondered," Jessica shrugs, not really feeling chatty. "Didn't know for sure." She takes a drink, exhaling softly as the burn crawls down her throat, licking her lips.

"Bet he felt real smug watching you join us," Barton comments, eye twitching with the corner of his lip, amused.

Jessica frowns. "I didn't _join_ anything," she denies. "I was just there."

"Why were you 'there', then?" Romanoff challenges, smirking.

Jessica glares at her. "They blew up my goddamn building," she snaps. "It had my shit in there."

Barton winces. "Oof, shit," he mutters.

But Romanoff is still smirking, an eyebrow lifting. "So, you charged into an alien invasion just because they pissed you off?"

"I've got a bad temper," Jessica bites out, eyes narrowing at her.

Romanoff's smile morphs with her amusement, though she tries to keep it subdued, her eyes twinkling as she blinks at Jessica. "Alright," she murmurs, her voice smooth and sultry.

Jessica knows that the redheaded woman is trying to get a read on her, and it's making her uncomfortable, her teeth gritting as the whispers predictably crawl up the back of her neck again. Romanoff's small smile twitches downwards in the corner of her mouth, alerting Jessica to her observation of the shift in Jessica's mental state. She drops her gaze to her glass as she downs the rest of her drink and sets the glass back down on the bar.

"Alright, I'm done here," she mutters, slipping out from behind the bar, her hand snatching the bottle of liquor Barton chose. "I'm taking this," she says, dragging the bottle against the bartop until it slips off the edge, her fingers tightening around the neck. She starts to walk towards the stairs, figuring that the Hulk at least won't be able to try and figure her out.

"Have you even got somewhere to go, after what happened today?" Barton calls after her.

"Literally anywhere other than here, yeah," she tosses over her shoulder at him.

She pushes against the door to lead her out into the stairwell, lifting the bottle to her lips to take a swig. Somewhere below her, she can hear the Hulk grunting and muttering to himself and she's once again hit by the complete absurdity of the events that have transpired today. Her building was _blown up_ , she couldn't keep a lid on her temper, and she ended up fighting alongside a bunch of costumed idiots that then forced her to participate longer than she intended. And fucking aliens exist, too.

Well, at least she's managing to escape now, even if she doesn't have anywhere to go.

" _Mr Stark would like me to remind you that the team is going for shawarma soon_."


	5. Shawarma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony is persistent, Jessica is reluctant, and the Avengers have questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoy the back-and-forth in this chapter! It's very daunting trying to stay true to two characters who already exist in the MCU(ish) but haven't interacted before, so I hope I did them justice. I am not as witty as either of them so it is difficult lmaooo. Thanks so much to everyone reading or commenting or engaging in any way, it means the world!!

" _Mr Stark would like me to remind you that the team is going for shawarma soon_ ," an English voice says. The voice is carrying through the air, as if emanating from the building itself, and the tone is the most polite and patient that Jessica has ever been addressed with.

She scowls in confusion, lifting the bottle to her lips again, and continues to walk down the stairs. She actually picks up her pace a little.

She makes it down another couple of flights before the voice speaks again. " _Mr Stark has asked that I repeat the reminder about the team's plan, and to also inform you that the bottle you are drinking from is his property._ "

Jessica rolls her eyes, spots a camera in the corner of the stairwell, and pauses her descent to take a particularly healthy swig of the liquor, refusing to wince at the painful burn blazing down her throat. She glances over the railing at her side, groaning quietly to herself at the amount of flights she still needs to walk down.

" _I feel I must warn you that Mr Stark is a very persistent man_ ," the voice says after another few flights of stairs. " _Might I suggest simply giving in to save yourself the bother?_ "

"Nice change in tactic," Jessica retorts dryly, lifting the bottle to her mouth again.

She's getting very bored of walking down stairs. Even looking up at Stark Tower from street-level didn't prepare her for how many goddamn flights of stairs there'd be. She supposes after everything she's done in her life, she deserves this day of bizarre punishment.

When it feels like she should really be close to the bottom floor now, she peeks over the railing again. She blinks, turning to lean her chest against the railing, her head cocking as she tries to analyse the distance between her level and the ground floor she can make out clearly below. When she glances at the set of stairs beside her, waiting for her to continue trudging down, she decides she'll take the risk and vaults over the railing, tucking the bottle of liquor close to her chest.

Air surges past her body, lifting her hair above her head, setting the lapels of her jacket flapping, and then her feet slam into the concrete at the bottom, her knees bending, hair and jacket slapping back down again. And she straightens up to look into the smirking face of Tony Stark, his hand holding the door open.

Jessica glares at him, watching his eyes twinkle with humour, the corner of his mouth pulling further into his cheek the longer she doesn't say anything. Then his hand slips off the door, moving to lean his shoulder against it instead, crossing his arms over his chest.

"If you were going for cinematic, you nailed it," he says, lifting a fist from his crossed arms to lean his chin on.

Jessica grits her teeth, exhaling through her nose, and stalks forward to push past him into the lobby.

"I wouldn't go left," Stark says at her back. "Bunch of grumpy, demanding suits over there."

Jessica notices the group he's referring to, eyes quickly scanning the military stances and outfits, and the older suited-man whose gaze has swung to land on her and Stark, his eyes narrowing.

She turns right and stomps away, eager to get herself out of this building and away from this situation.

"Is it the shawarma? Have you had it before and not enjoyed it particularly?" Stark asks, clearly following her along the lobby.

Jessica glares at the people milling around, sending her and the man curious looks. She lifts the bottle to her mouth again, taking an extra-large drink, and smirks to herself when the people avert their gazes, uncomfortable at the possibility that a drunk is walking past them in the middle of the day.

"I know Barton technically took that off the top shelf after I told him not to, but what you're doing feels _more_ like stealing."

Jessica sends him a flat glance when he falls into step beside her. "I didn't wanna be up there," she retorts. "I'm owed this."

His eyebrows lift, meeting her gaze, his hands now slipped into his pockets. "I think you're underestimating how much that bottle's worth," he counters, taking a hand out of his pocket to point at it.

"I sincerely doubt that you spared the price tag a second thought when you bought it," she scoffs.

"It was actually a gift from the Prince of-"

"Tell him 'Thanks' from me," she interrupts, taking another drink.

They're getting close to the doors now - _finally_ she can leave this place and these people behind her.

And go _where_?

"Seriously, though, is shawarma not good? Should we not get some?" Stark asks, giving her a questioning look.

Jessica's face scrunches with irritation. "Oh my god, I don't give a damn about your shawarma," she tells him.

" _Our_ shawarma," he retorts, glancing at her with a barely-concealed smirk. "You're still coming."

"I'm definitely not," she says, giving him a humourless smile.

His amusement slips from his face and he rolls his eyes, stopping a couple of metres from the doors and extending a hand in front of her to force her to stop, too. Jessica grits her teeth, turning an impassive glare on him, shoving her free hand into her jacket pocket.

"Listen, I get that you're aggressively-avoiding associating yourself with us, for whatever reason," he says, slipping his hands back into his jeans' pockets. "But the fact is, we fought against an _alien invasion_ today and I think we all deserve a little moment to just sit and process that and-" he pauses, blinking as his gaze averts, a shoulder shrugging up to his jaw, and Jessica notices the wave of tension that jumps through his movements. "And everything else," he rushes out, meeting her eyes again when he moves quickly to his next point. "Besides, Barton says your building got blown up?"

The falsity of his suddenly-curious tone is not lost on Jessica. She works her jaw as she watches him, sees the way he moves his face to an expression of polite, concerned, curiosity to cover up the momentary exposure of his fresh trauma. And she hates noticing it, because she'd much rather be oblivious to the processing that he's having to do, or at least she'd rather _not_ feel the teeny, tiny, miniscule sliver of empathy for the man.

"I've got other places to go," is all she says, deciding to keep her observations and empathy to herself, where they can be ignored.

Stark narrows his eyes at her, head tilting. "Alright, I'm gonna take a wild guess and say that was a total lie and everything about your life was in the building that got destroyed," he counters. "In which case, you'll be eligible to receive compensation from a fund I've got my CEO setting up right now."

"A fund?" she repeats, frowning at him, her chin tilting upwards slightly.

"Can't just destroy Midtown Manhattan and not contribute to the repairs," he shrugs.

"So, what, everyone whose home was destroyed-"

"Will receive a donation from Stark Industries to help them get back on their feet, with a couple grand leftover, yeah. And every shop owner, business owner, building owner, yada-yada," he rattles off dismissively, looking away from her.

Jessica's eyebrows lift of their own accord, regarding the man with a newfound respect that seems to just keep growing today. She clears her throat, glancing at the doors leading to her freedom. "Well, that seems fair," she replies. "I'd tell you to give me it in cash but that'd require more interactions, so you can just send it to my bank, which I'm sure you've got the resources to find."

She turns her eyes back to meet his for a moment to give him a nod, and then continues on towards the doors, taking another drink.

"You still don't have anywhere to go," he calls to her from where he remains unmoving.

"I'll sleep on a bench 'til your money comes in," she shrugs.

"Shit, that's actually a good point," he says, more to himself than to her. She hears him jog after her, already rolling her eyes when he moves in front of her to stop her again. She glances down at the finger pointing at her, eyes narrowing. "I could use your, uh, _situation_ to help us figure out what we need to do for these people."

Jessica's face scrunches. "Pick literally anyone else," she says, going to walk away again.

His hand reaches out, his fingers closing around her upper arm, pulling on her limb to keep her rooted to the spot. Jessica's jaw clenches, blinking harshly, rage and fear bubbling in her stomach.

To his credit, his brow pulls downwards a little when she glares at him, his brown eyes softening suddenly as his fingers loosen and slip away from her arm. He tucks his hands back into his pockets, even going so far as to take a small step back - which actually lets Jessica's chest loosen off a little, her lungs operating in a calmer fashion with the returning space in her ribcage.

"We blew up your building and you helped us fight off an alien invasion," he says, his tone serious but soft and undemanding. "That bottle is the least we can do. I'd like to get you and the team some shawarma to help us all unwind and settle down, and I'd like to offer you a place to stay for tonight." He sees her eyes narrow, her teeth grinding, and he lifts a defensive hand. "It's not charity. I'm doing it in exchange for what you've done today and for helping me understand how my company needs to help the people affected by the destruction."

Jessica sighs, looking away from him as she runs through her options - of which there aren't really many. All she really cares about is that she has somewhere to crash tonight when she finally can't keep her eyes open any more, and the weeks of gathering evidence she did before everything was destroyed. Finding a bed for the night probably wouldn't be too hard, but she needs somewhere to try to start building her evidence back up.

"I'll need two other things," she says reluctantly, turning her irritated gaze back to him. Stark's mouth twitches, eyes widening slightly, and she can read the smugness hidden in the lines of his face. "I'm gonna need a laptop," she says, and she shifts on her feet, working her jaw, glancing away from him again.

"Alright, and?" he prompts, eyeing her curiously.

"Uh," she mutters, her cheek twitching under her eye as she frowns. "I need you to check if Trish Walker's okay."

Stark blinks at her. "Trish Walker? As in the radio host? As in Pat-"

"What's with all the goddamn questions?" she demands, her face curling with irritation. "Can you do it or not?"

Stark frowns at her, clearly a little taken aback. But he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a phone, fancier than any Jessica has ever seen. "Uh, JARVIS, run a check on Trish Walker's building and phone, let us know what we're dealing with, here."

Jessica's frown relaxes a little, but her eyes are still hard as she glances between his phone and his face. His eyes flick to hers briefly, somber and cautious, and then he twists and takes a step closer to her so that he's showing her the phone as well. The high-tech screen is showing a display of phone numbers, a red bar scrolling through screeds of them.

"I've got her number if-" Jessica begins awkwardly.

" _Device located_ ," the accented voice from before announces from Stark's phone as the red bar lands on a number Jessica recognises and turns green. The screen then changes to a map, a marker sitting in Trish's building. " _Miss Walker's building was not affected by the battle. Audio scans suggest she is safe and unharmed. Do you wish to make contact_?"

"No, don't," Jessica says quickly, frowning. Stark lifts his head to look at her, his eyes boring down into her own. He isn't much taller than her, she realises in this proximity, but his reputation and fame somehow add a few psychological inches. She takes a step away from him again. "It's fine. Thanks," she adds awkwardly.

Stark's expression is surprisingly unreadable as he slips his phone back into his pocket, his eyes still settled on hers. "Alright," he says, and he plasters a more cheerful look on his face. "You hungry?"

He leads her out into the street where Rogers is moving towards them, and they're soon joined by Barton and Romanoff. Thor appears a while later, his prisoner still in tow, and Banner awkwardly picks his way through the debris to round off the group, smiling a little sheepishly at them. Jessica sticks to the back of the group, one hand in her jacket pocket, the other still clutching the liquor bottle at her side, her worn boots scuffing through the debris on the ground. At the barriers blocking off the streets, she can see slowly-growing crowds of people, many with cameras and microphones, all straining for a glimpse of the aftermath and a glimpse of the people who fought off the attack. She tilts her chin down, letting her hair slip from behind her ear to cover the side of her face.

The bottle slips out of her hand suddenly and she glances to her side, scowling, to find Barton walking beside her, lifting the bottle to his mouth. He takes a couple of swallows and passes the bottle back to her, letting out a short cough at the burn of the liquor. Jessica takes a drink when her fingers close around the bottle again, eyeing the man warily, waiting for him to start asking questions again. But he just glances at her and keeps walking, saying nothing. Even Romanoff, walking on his other side, decides not to say anything. Jessica rolls her shoulders back, frowning a little to herself, appreciating the silence but remaining somewhat cautious. She doesn't know these people, doesn't particularly _want_ to know them either, but they sure keep going out of their way to keep her included in something she flat-out refused when the offer was made.

Stark calls out happily when they get to the shawarma joint, offering the two workers huddled in the corner an enormous sum of money to make the team and Jessica some food. Jessica watches the workers, observing the silent looks passing between them, figuring the place must be owned by the couple, and guilt twists her stomach that they're making the poor people make food for them in the ruin of their shop. Rogers seems to have a similar train of thought, Banner too, because the two men offer to clear and set up tables for the team, using the couple's cleaning supplies while they make the food.

Thor sets Loki down in the corner of the joint, threatening him quietly before coming to sit at the table. Barton and Romanoff pick a couple of seats opposite him and relax into the chairs, waiting quietly for the food. Banner moves to sit at the bottom of the table on Barton's right, Rogers going to the opposite end between Romanoff and Thor. Jessica is stood off to the side, taking another drink, watching the companionable silence between the team while the whispers itch up the back of her neck. Stark is talking quietly to the owners, patting a hand on the man's shoulder when his eyes widen and water, whispering enthusiastically to the billionaire. Jessica looks at Stark's face when he glances over his shoulder at them quickly, observing the tension in the man's shoulders, the slight pursing of his lips, the hollowness in his eyes that suggests nothing but guilt and remorse, and she wonders again at the difference between the man she's reading and the man plastered across newspapers and magazines.

"You should probably sit down before he comes back and makes it a whole thing," Banner's voice says from the table.

Jessica turns to look at him, sighing at the apologetic smile on his face, watching his hand pat the back of the chair next to him at the corner of the table. She clears her throat, a little too loudly, her free hand reaching to scratch the back of her neck where goosebumps line the skin from the whispers. But she walks forward and slumps into the chair, depositing the bottle of liquor on the table in front of her and shoving her hands into her jacket pockets.

Stark joins the table not long after, sighing tiredly as he takes the last empty seat on Jessica's right. She glances at him, meeting his gaze when his arm stretches over to snatch the bottle away, but he just takes a drink and puts it back down between them, his mouth twitching.

"Are you gonna tell us who you are yet?" Rogers asks, leaning back in his seat with a tired smile.

Jessica watches him, her teeth biting into each other, her toes twitching repeatedly in her boot. Romanoff shifts in her seat, drawing Jessica's attention. "I know who you are," the redhead says. "I'll tell them if you don't."

Jessica licks her lips, drawing her feet across the floor back towards her body. Her fists clench inside her pockets and she sighs through her nose, eyes glancing all around the shop before finally landing back on Rogers' patient expression. "Jessica Jones," she says flatly.

Rogers gives her a genuine smile. "Nice to meet you, Miss Jones."

"Yeah," she mutters, reaching for the liquor bottle.

"So, you, uh, you're strong?" Banner asks from her left, blinking at her awkwardly.

Jessica swallows the alcohol. "Yeah."

"How did you get up onto that thing?" Stark asks, drawing her gaze to her right. He has an arm slung across the back of his chair, his fingers hanging casually at her shoulder, almost within reach. "You obviously can't fly or I wouldn't have had to catch you, but that thing wouldn't have just let you climb on."

Jessica tries not to roll her eyes at all the questioning, shifting in her seat. "I can jump," she says uncomfortably. "Far."

Stark scoffs, frowning at her with an amused smirk. "Sounds pretty close to flying."

Jessica frowns into her lap, her hand itching to rub the back of her neck. "I don't fly."

"Were you born with your strength?" Rogers asks.

Jessica glances at Stark, noting the lack of amusement in his face now, replaced by solemn curiosity, before she looks at Rogers again. Her lips move apart, her tongue dropping from the roof of her mouth to shape the words in her throat, but the noise gets clogged up and she doesn't say anything. Her mouth closes again, her eyes dipping to the table as her forehead pulls inwards, the whispers on her neck crawling into her hairline towards her ears. All she can do is shake her head in reply as guilt twists her stomach.

"Grub's up," Stark says cheerfully, his chair scraping against the floor when he shuffles it back to let the owners in to lay out their food. "Thanks."

Jessica stares at the basket of food in front of her, mouth twisting a little. Her hand reaches instead for the liquor, taking three swallows of the fire in the hopes that it'll numb her paranoia, even though she knows it never has before.

"Here," Stark says quietly, and she turns to see him holding out a napkin. Her eyes narrow at him, frown deepening, confused by the completely unnecessary action. But he is watching her with those solemn eyes, the corner of his mouth pulled into his cheek just enough for her to notice, and she understands that he's reading her as much as she's reading him.

"Thanks," she mutters, taking the napkin and turning to the food in front of her.

After that, the team and Jessica eat the food in silence, simply enjoying the flavours and the inertia after a long, hard day of _fighting aliens_. The owners are moving quietly around the joint with their cleaning supplies to try and salvage the place, and Jessica watches them with a small frown, feeling a little sympathetic, and a little jealous, she has to admit. At least they can rebuild their business - she's only as good as the cases she works, and she might have lost some irretrievable evidence in today's attack that means life or death to her clients.

She had managed to establish proof of a businessman who's dealing under the table to some shady parties, and she has no idea whether she'll manage to do it a second time - it took her weeks to establish codes and patterns and was almost privy to the meeting by sheer luck rather than skill, so who's to say that case isn't a complete dud now?

She's not entirely sure what the people around the table with her _do_ on a day-to-day basis, but something tells her that none of them are having to sit cramped on a fire escape waiting for a moment to photograph just so they can earn enough money to replenish their alcohol shelf and pay the landlord his steep rent. She wonders if Fury pays them a wage, being a part of this superhero team, and almost wonders if it's anything worth joining for. But, as much as she grumbles about the long hours and abysmal characters she comes into contact with, Jessica Jones still believes she's found her place in the world, and she still knows that she belongs there in the darkness making a living off of other people's paranoia and greed. It'll likely never change.


	6. Sleepover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jessica spends the night in Stark Tower. She reluctantly catches up with Trish, deals with a persistent Tony, and struggles to unwind after the day they've had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we've pretty much got a full chapter of one-on-one interactions between Jessica and Tony, as well as a brief convo with Trish! I hope you enjoy this one. Thanks for reading!

Jessica slouches in the chair, her elbows leaning on the desk either side of the keyboard, face propped up by her fists on her cheeks. Stark had lead her to a computer in his lab that she could use, rather than giving her a laptop, which means she's having to sit here and _attempt_ to focus on revisiting the investigative paths she walked down weeks ago, while straining to ignore the muttering Stark is doing on the other side of the lab with his technological butler, JARVIS. He occasionally calls out to Jessica to ask for an opinion about the multitude of New Yorkers rendered homeless after the attack and how he might be able to help them. So far, he has commissioned every building he owns in New York to advertise as a station for said homeless people to sleep, ensuring the buildings are stocked with all kinds of bedding and food supplies. She might have developed a whole new level of respect - as in developed one at all - for Stark today, but she'd still rather be at home with her laptop than in his overly-advanced lab completely out of her element.

She sighs when she hears a muffled vibration in her jacket pocket, knowing which name will be flashing across her screen. But she leans back anyway, reaching her hand down the back of the chair to find her pocket. Stark's lab isn't quite warm enough for her to take her jumper off and sit in just her tank top, but it's a pleasant enough temperature for her to have taken her jacket off and hung it on the back of her chair. Her fingers close around her phone and she pulls it out, the vibrations thrumming against her fingers and palm. And there is Trish's name on the screen, the green answer button taunting her, her thumb hovering above it. But goosebumps rise on the back of her neck as a whisper ghosts across it, and she tosses the phone onto the desk, using her hand to rub her face instead.

"Hey, Stark, you got a bathroom here or is that too mundane for you?" she calls.

When he turns to face her, his eyes are mid-roll. "Out the door and on your right."

His hands are up at his chest, one higher than the other, his fingers clicking before the higher hand slaps against the lower hand. Jessica wonders if it's a nervous tick and then tells herself she doesn't care and pushes out of her seat, the wheels rolling quietly on the floor. She leaves her phone on the desk and walks out of the lab, the door swinging shut behind her as she turns right and finds the sign for the women's bathroom.

She checks the four stalls when she enters to make sure no one is in here with her and then moves to the sink, bracing herself against it, head bowed. She breathes for a moment, working her jaw, eyes trailing over the split ends of her black hair as they hang down towards the basin. She closes her eyes as she breathes, willing the goosebumps on the back of her neck to go down, to smooth out, and she grinds her teeth against the inability to control her own body and mind.

Her neck tickles and she looks up sharply, eyes widening, heart jumping into her throat when she sees him behind her shoulder, smirking at her in the mirror. But she spins round, fist raised and flying to slam into him, and all she makes contact with is one of the stall doors. She leaves a dent in the wood, the door slamming into the stall and bouncing off the wall back towards her. She takes a few wild steps backwards, almost tripping over herself, neck twisting to scour every inch of the space around her, but she can't see him.

He's not here.

He couldn't be, anyway.

He's dead.

She pants for breath, scowling at the room through her panic, hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. She clenches her jaw, teeth biting into each other, and flexes out her fingers as she blows air out of her mouth.

"Main Street. Birch Street."

He's dead. He's dead. He's _dead_.

"Higgins Drive. Cobalt Lane."

The goosebumps on the back of her neck smooth into her skin again and her shoulders slump, her breaths coming slower and steadier. She lifts a barely-shaking hand to run her fingers through her hair and shifts on her feet. Then she marches straight back out of the bathroom, purposefully avoiding looking at the mirror, and walks back along to the lab.

"You wash your hands?" Stark quips as she opens the door, moving up the lab towards her.

"What?" she frowns, her mind slowly settling.

Stark quirks an eyebrow at her, his smirk faltering slightly, but then something on the desk she's using grabs his attention. Jessica's phone is ringing again.

"Oh, hey, it's Trish," he says, his voice light with surprise as he picks the phone up.

"Don't," Jessica snaps, but he's already answered the call, giving her a fake wince as he tosses the phone to her.

Jessica catches it, pursing her lips, clenching her jaw, and looks down at the screen that's now counting the seconds of the active call. She can hear Trish's voice emitting from the speaker, and she scowls at the way her body tries to tense and relax all at the same time.

" _-can't believe you actually picked up_ ," Trish is saying when Jessica finally lifts the phone to her ear, sending a brief glare at Stark before turning away from him.

"Yeah, unprecedented circumstances," Jessica mutters, glancing over her shoulder again at Stark, who has sat down in her chair to look at the article she was reading. How can he seem to be reading her one minute and then be completely blasé and boundary-crossing the next?

" _If that's what you wanna call it_ ," Trish replies, a bitter laugh in her voice. " _I saw you on the news_."

"You alright?" Jessica asks awkwardly.

" _Yeah,_ I'm _fine_ ," Trish says pointedly. " _I wasn't the one fighting off an alien invasion. Have you seen the news? They're calling you guys 'the Avengers'._ "

Jessica's face scrunches. "I don't care," she says. "I'm not with them."

" _Uh, that's not what it looked like, Jess_."

"Looks can be deceiving," Jessica intones.

" _You fought with superheroes_ ," Trish counters. " _You fought with Iron Man and Captain America, for god's sake._ You _were a hero_."

Jessica stiffens, her neck tickling again. "No," she retorts, her voice strong. "I was drunk and pissed off 'cos they destroyed my building."

" _Wait, what? Your building's gone?_ "

"Yeah," Jessica mutters, fidgeting uncomfortably.

" _Well, have you got somewhere to stay tonight? Or until you've found a new place?_ " Trish asks, her voice half-accusing, half-concerned.

"Yeah, don't worry."

" _Where are you staying_?"

"It doesn't matter," Jessica replies. "I said don't worry."

" _Jess_ ," Trish sighs. It's quiet for a moment, Jessica's brow furrowing, chewing on the inside of her cheek. " _I just wanted to make sure you were okay. As happy as it made me seeing you out there saving the city, I know it's not where you wanna be right now. I just thought you might wanna talk to someone._ "

Jessica tilts the microphone away from her mouth for a moment so Trish can't hear her sigh. She lifts a hand to rub at her forehead, fingertips digging into her skull, guilt churning her stomach. "Thanks," she responds eventually, forcing the word out. "I'm fine."

" _It's okay if you're not_ ," Trish says gently. " _I know we haven't spoken since you shut me out_ -"

"I needed breathing space," Jessica frowns.

" _I'm here for you, Jess. Just.. call me sometime, okay?_ "

Jessica licks her lips, her finger tapping the back of her phone. "Yeah, okay," she nods. She takes the phone from her ear and presses the button to end the call, staring down at the screen with a frown.

"Sorry, I, uh, figured you'd wanna speak to her after you asked me to check on her earlier," Stark says from her seat.

She turns her face away from him, sighing through her nose, tapping her phone into her palm. She can just imagine the disappointment on Trish's face.

"Get outta my seat," she says sharply, turning back to Stark and stomping to the chair.

"Technically mine," he mutters, making an offended face as he gets off the chair.

Jessica sees him lift his foot, anticipates his childish move, and reaches a hand out to prevent the chair from skidding across the lab when he kicks at it. He sighs exaggeratedly, throwing his hands in the air in agitation. When they slap back to his hips, he purses his lips and cocks his head at her, watching with narrowed eyes as she slumps onto the chair again.

"How strong _are_ you, by the way? What's your limit? You ever spent a day just punching shit harder and harder to see how hard your hardest hit is?"

" _Stop_ saying 'hard'," Jessica bites out, scowling against the memories that surface. "And shut that train of thought down 'cos I'm not a goddamn lab-rat."

"I'm just saying, it'd be a fun-"

"And I'm telling you to shut the hell up," she snaps, turning a wild glare at him, her hands clenching into fists on the desk.

Stark sighs through his nose when he snaps his mouth shut, the corner of his lips pulling into his cheek solemnly. "This is the only way to do this, you know," he says.

Jessica wishes she had a glass of whiskey in her hand. "Do what?" she asks through clenched teeth.

He gestures between them both. "Get to know you. Establish a relationship. You've given us nothing but your name all day, and even that came at a push. The only way to get to know you is by pushing your buttons to see what's off-limits and what's up for casual chatter."

Jessica scowls at him. "Really? The _only_ way?" she says monotonously.

"Uh, yeah," he retorts pointedly. "You're not exactly game for a meaningful conversation, are you?"

"Maybe _everything's_ off-limits," she says.

Stark's mouth drops open to sigh loudly, his eyes rolling. "You're staying at my place and you won't even tell me a _teeny_ little bit about yourself?"

"You invited me," Jessica reminds him, giving him a cold smirk. "You said you owed me this."

"Maybe I do; maybe I lied to get you to stick around a little longer," he shrugs.

Jessica stares at him. "I hunt and expose liars for a living," she says.

"That a threat?"

Jessica tilts her head, giving him a falsely-sweet smile. "I thought we were just getting to know each other?"

Stark narrows his eyes at her, his lips pressing together as he works his jaw side to side. "You excel at keeping people at arm's length," he says, tucking his hands into his pockets and rocking on his heels. His dark eyes bore into her. "Even people who you might actually be quite close to, relatively speaking," he adds, nodding at her phone to imply Trish. "You act like you don't give a shit, you disguise doing good, decent things by acting like you're doing it all in your own self-interest, and your penchant for alcoholism is likely a coping mechanism or self-prescribed medication for some past trauma. You seem to despise or fear your power - or both. You don't hide, but you don't chase the spotlight either. You keep your head down and help where you can, how you can, even if it means using the strength you're afraid of. You're at war with something inside of you. And, because of that, you're constantly on the defensive whenever someone says or asks something that hits too close to home," he finishes, his eyes never dropping hers.

She's never seen him look so serious and earnest, but there is a wave of sheer indignation surging through her body, her heart pulsing a chilling numb down every limb, and her mind is throwing up walls around itself. She glares at him for another moment, and then she snatches her phone off the desk, steps off the chair again, and grabs her jacket off the back of it as she starts to walk away.

She barely makes it four steps before he has rushed up behind her, his shoulder threatening to press against the back of hers as he leans past her side to catch her eye. "Listen, I can only see that 'cos it's like I'm looking in a goddamn mirror," he snaps. Jessica scowls with confusion, abruptly halting to turn a fiery glare at him. "Except I can't jump a hundred feet in the air," he allows, tilting his head with a barely-concealed smirk. "And I've never been known to shy away from the spotlight."

"Great," Jessica snaps back sarcastically, throwing the hand holding her jacket in the air beside her. "You can interrogate your reflection, then."

Stark winces regretfully. "You're actually a lot easier on the eyes."

Jessica frowns at him incredulously, lips parted to facilitate words she can't scramble together at the moment, and she shakes her head at him.

Stark rolls his eyes. "You don't have to storm off every time someone tries to get to know you."

"Yeah, maybe I should punch them in the throat instead," she retorts. "Maybe _that'd_ get the message across."

Stark actually laughs. A genuine, true, not-in-any-way forced _laugh_. It stretches his mouth into his cheeks, his cheeks pushing up into his eyes, and the corners of his eyes crinkle, the warm brown gleaming with amusement. His eyebrows twist upwards as if his amusement has come as a surprise to him, and it almost catches her off-guard.

"God, you're delightful," he beams at her. Jessica can only watch him, her eyebrows twitching downwards with the corner of her mouth. Stark nods to himself and turns to walk back down his lab. "You're more than welcome to storm out in the middle of the night and find one of those buildings I've set up," he says over his shoulder. "Maybe you'll prefer sleeping in a repurposed restaurant with twenty other people over a private bedroom with quality bed sheets and a personal bathroom, I don't know."

Jessica turns to look at his back, scowling now. "It's eight-twenty," she corrects him.

Stark shrugs, twisting to watch her as he walks backwards a few steps. "You wanna share a bathroom with twenty distraught New Yorkers, or do you wanna sleep in a room that can block out any sound coming from anyone, anywhere?"

Jessica grinds her teeth against each other, glaring down the lab at his smirking face. She's not even sure if tonight's gonna be a night for sleeping yet, but she knows that, if it is, she'd definitely rather be in one place over the other. She purses her lips and averts her gaze as she turns her body fully to stomp back towards the desk she adopted, tossing her jacket over the back of the chair and dropping her phone noisily onto the desk.

"Whatcha reading, anyway?" Stark asks cheerfully when she sits down.

Jessica frowns at her screen, hunching over the edge of the desk again. Stark's ability to go from reading her so intensely to chatting like they're all sunshine and daisies is enough to make her head spin. "I'm redoing research for a case," she replies shortly. When he says nothing in reply, she looks up past her screen to search for his face, wondering if he's suddenly passed out. But he's looking at her expectantly, an amused smile barely contained on his lips. Jessica rolls her eyes, looking back at the article in front of her. "Private investigator," she says, answering his unspoken question.

She can see his figure past the edge of her screen as he lifts his knee in the air and slaps it, the crack echoing through the room. "Bingo!" he cheers.

Jessica leans her elbow on the desk, pressing her fist into her mouth to hide the smirk she cuts short before Stark catches sight of it.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Jessica has learned tonight that Stark is as much of a work-until-you-drop kind of person as she is. In fact, it seems he's even more of one, since he mentioned returning to the lab after showing her to a guest room a couple of floors below. She has also learned that no matter _how_ fancy and swanky a bedroom is, the implication of getting into bed and surrendering to her subconscious is still largely ominous and dread-inducing. She had sat in the armchair provided in the large room for about fifty-three minutes before deciding sleep wasn't going to be an option and she had pulled her boots back on and left the bedroom in her jeans and tank top.

Her boots scuff the pristine floor of the hallway as the trudges along, brow furrowed, throat dry. She had glimpsed some kind of massive lounge area when Stark had brought her down here and she is making her way back there just now, hoping to find a bottle of some nondescript alcohol and a window to look out of. She comes to the doorway on her left and presses her hand flat against the wood, pushing it open to reveal a room bigger than her entire apartment.

The wall directly ahead of her is made entirely of glass and is slightly curved, opening up an impressive view of the city - which is still full of red and blue flashing lights from the attack, glowing eerily with the city lights in the darkness. Between Jessica and the wall of glass, there is an assortment of couches and armchairs and small tables and stools. It almost looks like a large company's staffroom, with the various clusters of furniture that look as though they could facilitate several small gatherings at the same time. On the wall to her left, there are TV screens dotted intermittently; on her right, there's a line of cupboards and countertops against the wall, stretching the entire length. And, there, in the bottom-right corner, is a small collection of bottles.

She sits for an immeasurable amount of time, eyes aimed down at the streets below but unfocused, fingers loosely gripping a glass of bourbon with the bottle between her feet. She's on the floor, her back against a couch, her knees bent up at her chest, her forearms leaning on her knees, and she is still not ready to face the bed that's waiting for her. She hasn't experienced so many whisper-triggering events in one day in a long time and she _knows_ that it'll all just come rushing back in a tidal wave in her sleep, and she knows she'll have a nightmare and wake up sweating and heaving for breath and flailing to attack a ghost. She's so _tired_ , but she's also tired of living with such debilitating paranoia.

The sound of clinking glass snaps her attention to the reflection of the room in the window in front of her. She can see Stark's silhouette illuminated by the lighting under the cupboards on the walls, and she watches him pick up a glass and turn to walk towards her.

"Mind if I join?" he asks quietly, as though not to startle her.

Jessica's neck twists as she looks over the couch at him. She expects to see some sort of cheekiness or teasing or smugness or humour on his face, but his expression is relaxed, his smile small and a little sad, his eyes haunted. She wonders if he's worried that he'll relive his near-death experience in space when he closes his eyes, the way she worries she'll relive the moments her autonomy was stolen from her when she sleeps.

In answer to his question, she drops her left hand to the bottle between her feet and wraps her fingers around the neck, lifting it up into the air. She waits for him to sit down on the floor next to her and extend his glass towards her before she pours, averting her eyes from his gaze when she can't think of a way to react to him.

"You decided against the bed, then?" he asks rhetorically, lifting his glass to his mouth as he turns to look out the window.

"Don't take it personally," she responds, refilling her own glass.

"I wouldn't have a leg to stand on," he says when he swallows. "My bed is being willfully avoided right now."

Jessica lets out a small scoff. Part of her wonders if she should try to assure him that it'll get easier with time, dealing with the nightmares, but she's not even sure if her words would be genuine, never mind if she actually _wants_ to say them.

"What're you gonna do tomorrow?" Stark asks, and she sees him glance at her in her peripheral vision.

"I dunno," Jessica sighs, leaning her head back against the couch. "Take your money and go find a new shitty place to rent. Get a new camera and laptop. Try salvage these goddamn cases I lost all my work for."

"You know, all you have to do is _ask_ and I can get you a new-"

"I'm not a charity, Stark," she says firmly, turning to send him a look. "Alias is.. _mine_. Every piece of it." She doesn't know how to explain it other than that.

"I get it," he shrugs, allowing silence to settle on them comfortably for a moment. "So, Alias?"

The corner of Jessica's mouth twitches sadly. "Yeah. Alias Investigations."

"Very cool name. You come up with it?"

Jessica's fingers tap the glass in her hand. "Not really. I had help."

"Trish?"

She glances at him, and his face seems to soften in understanding. "Someone else," is all she says, and he doesn't ask any more.

They sit quietly for a long time, drinking and refilling glasses and staring out into the city still trying to recover from an alien invasion. Jessica feels like this day has been one of the longest of her life - she has a plethora of contenders for _the_ longest day - and she knows she'll need to get some amount of sleep tonight, at some point, but she's still working up the courage. She can't help sifting through her memories of the day and picking out the moments that will likely feature in nightmares for the next couple of months, her subconscious warping the moments until they're tinged with purple and there's a presence standing over her shoulder, bearing down on everything she is and could be.

She stares at the reflection of her pale face in the window. She can see the bags under her eyes, the fear and rage in the hard line of her mouth, the stress in the greasy hair she's run her hands through too many times today. Her eyes drop to the hand wrapped around her glass, frowning down at the digits with so much power within them, so much potential, and yet so much guilt and shame and regret.

"I'm not afraid of it," Jessica says quietly. She sees Stark's face turn towards her at her side. "My strength, my powers, whatever. That's not what scares me."

Stark watches her carefully, deciding whether or not to dig deeper. "What does scare you, then?" he asks, his voice as quiet as hers.

Jessica licks her lips, her gaze dropping to the floor as she tilts her head downwards. "Someone else controlling them. Controlling me," she mutters.

Stark stares at her. She can feel his eyes burning into the side of her head. But he doesn't say anything; he just leans over and pours more bourbon into her glass.


	7. A Little Bunny Tail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jessica deals with the consequences of fighting with the Avengers and meets a new neighbour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoy this chapter! There's a small Tony POV at the bottom which hopefully doesn't feel OOC. Let me know what you think!

"Listen, lady," Jessica bites out, struggling not to snap into her phone. "I get that you're impatient and you need answers; but I'm telling you that my building blew up yesterday and all my work was destroyed, so you're gonna have to wait while I-"

" _You should have your work backed up somewhere, that's so unprofessional!_ " the woman interrupts loudly, her voice so shrill and piercing Jessica has to move the phone away from her ear a little.

"Oh, so you want proof of your brother's activities recorded in several locations so there's more chance of it being found?" she retorts, scowling as she stomps into her living room, kicking at a bag of recently-purchased clothes on the ground.

" _It just seems irresponsible and unprofessional_ ," the woman stammers. " _How long will I have to wait for you to build it all up again_?"

Jessica rolls her eyes. "I don't know, I have a couple other cases I need to-"

" _I don't give a shit about your other cases - I need proof that my brother's stealing from my mother!_ "

"Would you let me finish a goddamn sentence?" Jessica snaps, face contorted in indignated anger. "Give me a week before you call and start hounding me again, and I won't charge you the hours I'll put in building the evidence back up. Deal?"

The woman is silent for a moment. Then, " _Fine._ " And she hangs up.

"Asshole," Jessica mutters, pulling the phone away from her ear and scowling down at the screen as it displays the end of the call with her client.

Phoning the people who were expecting Jessica to provide them with evidence of their different suspicions and accusations and fears, and telling them she'll need twice as long as they'd all expected because she lost all of her work, is something she has _not_ enjoyed doing. Three of the four phone calls went the same way this last one has and she had stupidly decided to do it before she'd filled her newly-appointed alcohol shelf, so now she's _especially_ pissed off.

She stands in the middle of her new living room, looking around at the scarce furnishings and dim lighting. She had settled on a furnished apartment since she didn't have time to go around and buy a bunch of shit for living in it today, but it's not really made the place any nicer. It's old and smells of smoke and creaks wherever she walks, and the building is just as riddled with unfortunate souls as her last one was, which means noisy, nosy, drunken, high, aggressive, antisocial neighbours. But she's used to all of that, and she certainly feels more comfortable here than she did in Stark Tower. There's a couch against the wall, a dining table she'll use as her desk, a bed and bedside tables in the bedroom, and another small table in the kitchen - she really doesn't need much else. Maybe she'll get a plant. But it'll probably die.

Her phone buzzes in her hand and she looks down to see a text from Trish reading, " _Let me know if you haven't got a place yet and need somewhere to stay. Or call me if you wanna talk about yesterday. I haven't forgotten, but I can imagine you're trying to._ "

Jessica's eyebrow twitches upwards, a bitter huff of air escaping her nostrils. Trish has a habit of offering things that they both know Jessica will never take her up on - but some of her observations or guesses at Jessica's behaviour are unnervingly accurate. Jessica is _definitely_ planning to forget everything that happened yesterday - from the aliens, to her storming into battle like an idiot, to working with a bunch of nerds, to willingly spending a night in Stark's company. She doesn't know what she was thinking, involving herself like that, exposing herself to these people who then expected her to hang around and _introduce_ herself and _chat_. It was stupid of her to do that. She should have just followed the crowds to safety and hidden out.

She realises _just_ how stupid it was when she leaves the building and starts walking to the closest liquor store, and she glimpses a news reporter and her cameraman across the street. The reporter sees Jessica and does a double-take, and then turns to say something enthusiastically to her cameraman, pointing over at Jessica's side of the street.

"That doesn't look good," Jessica frowns to herself, turning her face away and shovelling her hands in her jacket pockets, picking up her pace as she stomps along the sidewalk.

"Excuse me! Hang on a minute. Excuse me!" a woman's voice calls out behind her.

Jessica grits her teeth and walks faster, but the reporter literally runs around her and thrusts a hand out to stop her. "Get out of my way, lady," Jessica says tiredly.

"You're the woman that fought yesterday, aren't you?" the reporter asks excitedly, eyes wide and gleaming. Her brown hair is ruffled from her effort to catch up to Jessica, her face a little pink. "I'm trying to make it big and if you gave me a statement, it'd-"

"I just wanna go to the store," Jessica winces uncomfortably, gesturing past the brunette. "I don't have anything to say."

But the reporter is too busy signalling for her cameraman to come over, her smile still wide and eager. "You'd honestly be doing me _such_ a huge favour," she gushes. "I'd be the first person to get a statement from-"

Jessica shakes her head, frowning, and tries to walk past the woman. "I'm not interested."

But apparently the cameraman has arrived and started rolling. "I'm here in Hell's Kitchen and a real-life superhero has just walked past me on the street - the first recorded sighting of the woman since she was seen battling with the rest of the Avengers yesterday during the horrific attack that left an entire city devastated and shellshocked."

Jessica scowls, her mouth twisting with annoyance when the reporter appears at her side again, face schooled into something more professional, a microphone in her hand. And, walking sideways past her to get a shot of her speaking to Jessica, her cameraman holds his camera up on his shoulder, navigating his way through the people on the street without even looking.

"Would you like to introduce yourself to the city of New York, ma'am?" the reporter asks, and she thrusts the microphone in Jessica's face.

"No," Jessica grunts, glancing around her at the people starting to look at them and pursing her lips, whispers tickling the back of her neck.

"Humble _and_ heroic, what a combination," the reporter improvises, grinning at her. "Can you tell us how it felt to be out there yesterday, fighting against aliens?"

Jessica scowls, her cheek pushing up into her eye, her lip curling. "No."

"A woman of few words," the reporter says, turning to the camera, hurrying to keep up with Jessica as she tries to walk even faster. "I'm sure it must be difficult to process. Witnesses have claimed you stayed at Stark Tower last night - was that a debrief with the team or a more personal visit?"

Jessica glares at her, fists clenching in her pockets. "I was at home last night," she bites out.

"How long have the Avengers been together before your appearance yesterday? How often do you all meet up?"

Jessica stops abruptly, catching the look of surprise on the woman's face before she thrusts the microphone back into Jessica's nose. "Back off," Jessica growls.

"I know some of this must be top-secret, but surely you can give the city _some_ kind of insight into this team of superheroes! What's an average day like in the life of an Avenger?"

"Listen, lady," Jessica says quietly, stepping in closer to the reporter, voice low and threatening. "I'm not a part of the goddamn team, I'm not a goddamn Avenger, and I'm not a goddamn hero," she mutters. "Now get that microphone out of my _goddamn_ face before I shove it down your throat and out your ass like a little bunny tail."

The reporter stares at her, stumbling back a step, and Jessica turns a brief glare to the camera before she pushes between them and stalks back along the sidewalk, her hands itching to rub at the back of her neck where she can feel the whisper of a breath along the skin, ghostly fingers brushing her hair aside. She grits her teeth and ducks into an alleyway, breaking into a jog to escape deeper into the shadows, her clenched fists pulling free of her jacket pockets at the imagined threat of an attacker.

She slows back down to a walk, glancing over her shoulder to make sure no one followed her, and moves to lean her back against a wall. Her eyes clench shut, her mouth pulling downwards, and her heart hammers inside her chest painfully as memories threaten to resurface and overwhelm her. She tries to focus on her breathing, inhaling and exhaling at a steadier pace, listening to her breaths in the hopes that it'll drown out the whispers. And, slowly, mercifully, they start to fade away, the thumping of her heart slowing and weakening into something more subdued.

Jessica opens her eyes to stare down at the ground, her brow furrowing gently as hopelessness spreads cold and numbing from her chest to her toes and fingertips.

She's so _tired_ of this.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

The elevator door slides open in front of her and she pushes off the back wall, trudging out into her hallway. Her door waits for her at the opposite end, but there seems to be an intense conversation going on at the first door on the right from her apartment. The landlord she spoke to earlier this morning to rent her own place is now speaking to a young man who looks more than a little worse for wear, his eyes glazed and unfocused, skin pale and sickly. Jessica watches them for a moment as she walks towards them, but casts her gaze to her door when she walks by.

"Please, _please,_ I really need this apartment. I _have_ to get this apartment. Please," the young man is begging, his voice slurred and his movements sluggish, but there's a genuine desperation in his voice that has Jessica pausing at her door with her key hovering at the lock.

"I just don't trust that you're gonna pay your rent every month," the landlord says, his tone a little too harsh for her liking. "I can't take the risk."

Jessica turns her head a little to watch them over her shoulder, slotting the key absentmindedly into the lock.

"I'm good for it, I promise," the young man insists, fingers clawing and clenching in the air before his chest. "I got that money, right? I got the money from the fund, I-"

"Yeah, I get you can pay rent for _this_ month, but what about next month?" the landlord demands impatiently.

"Please, sir, I _have_ to have this apartment. I need it. You don't understand-"

"And _I_ need rent."

"Hey," Jessica says, taking a step towards them, her fingers still turning the key in her lock. She makes an attempt to appear reasonable to the landlord, in the hopes that it'll encourage him to be the same way. "You're getting a month's rent, right? This is New York - if he doesn't pay up next month, you'll have no trouble finding someone who will. You never know, you might save his life giving him somewhere stable to live for a month."

The landlord frowns at her. "Am I supposed to give a shit? Look at him - what kind of trouble is he gonna bring to this place?"

Jessica glances at the young man, observing the signs of a drug addict and knowing the bag of bottles in her hand doesn't give her much of a leg to stand on. She'll probably end up being more trouble than this guy.

"I can deal with trouble," she answers the landlord, turning her gaze back to him with a shrug. "And, besides, you could wonder the same thing about several people in this building," she adds, shaking her head with bitter amusement. "You've probably got three people like him on each floor."

The landlord glares at her. "You gonna take responsibility for any messes he makes?"

Jessica grits her teeth, giving him a flat look. "No," she bites out. "If he makes a mess, kick him out. Just give him a chance right now. He might be able to turn himself around when he has a stable home for a month."

"He makes a mess, you're both out," the landlord says threateningly, pointing at them both with a chubby finger. "I'll get the paperwork. Stay there," he says to the young man, and he turns and stomps back down the hallway.

Jessica purses her lips and turns back to her door, twisting the key in the lock to open it. "Goddamnit," she mutters to herself, swinging the door open and trudging into her apartment.

"Hey, wait, thank you," the young man says behind her, hurrying to press a hand on the door when she turns to close it. "You didn't have to do that," he says, his words thick in his mouth as he strains to focus his eyes on her.

Jessica's mouth twitches downwards. "It better not bite me on the ass, kid," she says.

He lingers in the doorway, mouth opening and closing uselessly, and Jessica sighs to herself before she drops her hand from the door, walking over to the left corner of her living room where she's found a shelf to use as her liquor store. She pulls the bottles from the bag in her hand and lines them up along the shelf.

"You don't have any stuff," the young man says.

Jessica glances at him standing in the middle of her living room, frowning at her couch and desk. "I travel light," she responds.

He blinks, as if surprised to hear her speak, and turns to look at her again. "My name's Malcolm," he says, lifting a weak hand to his chest.

Jessica sighs again and picks one of the bottles on her shelf to unscrew the lid and pour a glass. "Good to meet you, Malcolm," she intones.

"What's your name?"

Jessica lifts her glass to her lips and moves to her desk, slumping into the chair. She swallows the mouthful of liquor and kicks her feet up onto her desk. "Jessica," she says, reaching forward to open up her new laptop and sign in. Her phone is lifted out of her pocket and dropped on the desk next to the laptop, the screen telling her she has a new missed call from Trish. She clenches her jaw and swipes the notification away.

Malcolm's feet scuff against her floor as he trudges towards her desk, moving to the side her phone is on. "Thank you for helping me, Jessica," he says.

Jessica glances up at him uncomfortably. "Just try not to cause any trouble," she mutters.

Her phone buzzes on the table and they both look down at it, frowns pulling at both of their faces.

"Who's Tony?" Malcolm mumbles, squinting at the screen.

Jessica snatches the phone up, scowling at the name with utter confusion and indignation. She opens the message, her thumb tapping the screen harder than necessary.

" _Hey, Jones! You find a new place or do I need to take a stray in again tonight?_ "

Jessica grits her teeth, glaring at the message. " _Touch my phone again and I'll break every bone in your body. I'm deleting your number,_ " she types back.

"Who's Tony?" Malcolm asks again, almost coughing out the words.

"Nobody," Jessica grunts.

" _Technically, I didn't physically touch your phone._ "

" _I don't give a shit how you did it, Stark. Never do it again._ "

"Hey, crackhead!" the sound of the landlord's voice slaps through Jessica's open doorway.

She scowls up at it, leaning left to see past her door into the open space, watching him trudge down the hallway towards the apartment. She glances up at Malcolm, who is watching her with a blank expression.

"Who's Tony?" he repeats.

Jessica frowns at him, almost concerned. "Don't make him wait, kid," she advises. "Go out and sign the papers before he changes his mind."

Her phone buzzes again in her fingers but she keeps her gaze on Malcolm, watching as his face twitches as if in discomfort before he manages to turn around and stumble towards her doorway. Her eyes narrow at his back, not sure what to make of his behaviour.

" _Why do you call me Stark?_ " the text message reads.

" _It dehumanises you_ ," she types back, distracted. She leans left again to peer out into the hallway, frowning at Malcolm and the landlord.

Her phone buzzes again.

" _You intimidated, Miss Jones?_ "

She quirks an eyebrow at the screen. " _No, just horrified that I have to interact with you at all. Why do you call me Jones?_ "

She hears keys jingling and leans left once more, watching the landlord reluctantly slap the keys to the apartment in Malcolm's hand. He catches her looking and scowls at her warningly, reminding her that her neck is on the line as well as Malcolm's.

She leans back in her chair, adjusting her feet on her desk, pressing the corner of her phone into her forehead with a scowl. _Why_ did she have to involve herself?

The next vibration rattles her skull dully.

" _Because I'm scared if I call you Jessica you'll crush my skull with your bare hands_."

Jessica purses her lips in an attempt to stop an amused smirk. " _That's the smartest thing you've ever said_ ," she types, but then she remembers she was going to have deleted his number, and she still hasn't. She deletes the letters, watching them disappear one by one, her face slowly turning downwards with discontent.

The skin on the back of her neck starts to crawl and she shifts uncomfortably, her feet sliding off her desk and dropping with a thud to the floor below. She closes the conversation and goes into her contact list, which consists of Trish, Hogarth, Dorothy for emergencies, a local pizza joint and, now, Tony Stark. She goes into his contact information and glares at the screen, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her desk.

Her thumb hovers over the "Delete contact" button for a good minute.

She stretches it over to the corner and hits "Edit", changing the name to Stark.

The phone drops noisily from her hand onto her desk and she presses her fingers into her face, rubbing at her eyes and dragging her fingertips down her cheeks until they support her jaw.

"Damnit," she mutters.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Tony smirks to himself as he walks away from Bruce, leaving the man to play around with the gadgets alone for a moment. He'd invited Bruce back to the Tower to look at some of his latest ideas after the Avengers had briefly met to hand over the Tesseract to Thor and say goodbye to him before he took Loki back to Asgard. Jessica had left this morning, as early as she could, really, and Tony hadn't quite felt ready to come back to the Tower and wander the place alone, so he'd been more relieved than he'll ever let on to anyone when Bruce had accepted the invitation.

"Find something more interesting, would you, J?" Tony asks distractedly, glancing at the TV screen on the wall as he navigates the lab.

"Of course, sir," JARVIS replies, as polite as ever.

"- _trust them? How do we know they're really on our side? We don't actually know any of these people - save for Tony Stark, who I think we can all agree we know_ too _much about_ ," a man is saying conversationally on the TV.

Tony stops walking and turns to look at the screen at the sound of his name, blinking in mild surprise when he sees the shaky, amateur footage playing in a box beside the speaker's head. Some civilian must have recorded him and the others fighting the aliens yesterday on their phone and sent it into whatever TV show this is.

"This is what you call interesting?" Tony mutters rhetorically, leaning his lower back against a desk, glancing away from the screen and the man's smug smirk to grab at a tool and a piece of abandoned machinery to fiddle with while he pretends not to listen.

" _Think about it - we've got the recovering mess of a billionaire, Tony Stark, we've got the big green guy who destroys everything he touches-_ " the man rants on. Tony sends a quick glance to Bruce to see if he's listening, but with the scientist's back to him, he can't tell. "- _we've got a wanna-be Captain America, some dude with a hammer, and, by the looks of them, a couple of secret agents. Can we really look at any of them and say with the utmost confidence that we_ trust _them?_ "

Tony rolls his eyes, wondering why them fighting off an alien attack isn't enough proof that they can be trusted.

" _Still not convinced? Alright, let's look at the last member of the team - the woman in the leather jacket._ "

Tony's fingers move out of sheer habit, his eyes flicking up to the TV screen and sticking. His brow pulls downwards slightly when the box beside the man's head shows a picture of Jessica, clearly taken from a video of her - but she looks a little distressed.. and pissed off.

" _A reporter managed to catch her on the street this afternoon and- well, I'll let the video speak for itself_."

The box enlarges until it covers the full screen, the video rewinding to the start, and Tony watches attentively as the reporter speaks quickly and eagerly to the camera, glancing over her shoulder at a leather-jacketed back and black hair.

" _I'm here in Hell's Kitchen and a real-life superhero has just walked past me on the street - the first recorded sighting of the woman since she was seen battling with the rest of the Avengers yesterday during the horrific attack that left an entire city devastated and shellshocked_."

The camera moves behind the reporter as she hurries to catch up with Jessica, and then overtakes them both, twisting to get a shot of their faces as they all walk along the street.

" _Would you like to introduce yourself to the city of New York, ma'am_?" the reporter asks, moving the microphone towards Jessica.

Tony's cheek twitches, his muscles torn between pulling a smirk or a wince.

" _No_ ," Jessica says simply, her voice flat and blunt. Tony watches as she glances at the people unseen by the camera, watches her full lips purse into a hard, bitter line, her forehead twitching.

" _Humble_ and _heroic, what a combination_ ," the reporter persists, grinning at her. " _Can you tell us how it felt to be out there yesterday, fighting against aliens_?"

Jessica scowls at the question, and any amusement Tony feels is dropped when he notices the tension in her shoulders and neck. " _No_ ," she repeats.

" _A woman of few words_ ," the reporter says, giving the camera a quick look, her eyebrows raised and eyes widened as if to share in a snarky comment with the audience.

Tony frowns, his head tilting in something like indignation.

"Is that Jessica?" Bruce asks, suddenly appearing at Tony's side.

Tony relaxes his face quickly and glances at him, nodding.

" _I'm sure it must be difficult to process. Witnesses have claimed you stayed at Stark Tower last night - was that a debrief with the team or a more personal visit_?" the reporter continues.

Tony rolls his eyes, his fidgeting hands tucking into his armpits when he crosses his arms. He doesn't miss the glance Bruce sends at him when he huffs out an irritated breath.

Jessica glares at the reporter. " _I was at home last night_ ," she bites out. Tony wonders if he should be offended that she's so quick to deny it.

" _How long have the Avengers been together before your appearance yesterday? How often do you all meet up_?"

As the reporter is asking the questions, Tony slowly frowns again, taking a small step forward as he watches the tension in Jessica's body strain her muscles against her skin. He recognises the way her body is visibly reaching a bursting point, having witnessed it first-hand, and suddenly realises the video was taken a good few hours ago.

The next step Jessica takes brings her to a complete halt and she turns her body to face the reporter, glaring fiercely at the woman who _still_ chases a statement, pushing the microphone back in Jessica's face despite the small jump she does.

" _Back off_ ," Jessica warns, her voice a low growl that unbelievably doesn't manage to shut the reporter up for good.

" _I know some of this must be top-secret, but surely you can give the city_ some _kind of insight into this team of superheroes! What's an average day like in the life of an Avenger_?"

" _Listen, lady_ ," Jessica mutters, her shoulders rigid with tension, her dark eyes blazing with anger. " _I'm not a part of the goddamn team, I'm not a goddamn Avenger, and I'm not a goddamn hero_ ," she says, and Tony catches the bitter twist her voice takes when she uses the H-word. " _Now get that microphone out of my_ goddamn _face before I shove it down your throat and out your ass like a little bunny tail_."

"Oh, wow," Bruce mumbles.

Tony is watching the screen with a clenching jaw, his eyebrows furrowed gently in almost-reluctant concern. Jessica gives the camera one last withering scowl before she pushes out of shot, which is when the video reduces back into the box beside the presenter's head.

Tony takes one look at the man's judgement and amusement and says firmly, "Find something else, JARVIS."

The channel changes to something more trivial before the presenter can proclaim whatever ridiculous suspicions he has, and Tony turns away from the screen, attempting a casual saunter over to the other side of the lab. He knows that if a reporter had caught _him_ and started hounding him with questions about going into space, he'd have likely reacted much the same as Jessica had. Clearly the woman has some sort of trauma in her past, something that makes her close up and lash out whenever she's reminded of it, and Tony has to admit that, while he wouldn't wish that kind of suffering on anyone, it _is_ still a comfort to know that there's someone out there handling it as badly as he is.

"Jeez, she looked mad," Bruce comments from where Tony had left him. "How was she, by the way? When she stayed over last night."

"Hmm?" Tony replies distractedly, slipping his phone from his pocket and opening his contacts. He glances across the room at Bruce. "Oh, uh, fine. She was fine," he shrugs. Bruce frowns at him and he rolls his eyes, gesturing vaguely. "Still stubbornly closed-off, but she didn't threaten me like that, at least."

Bruce makes a face at the reminder of the threat, shaking his head as he turns to walk back to the desk he left the gadgets on. Tony watches him walk away for a moment, his mind elsewhere, and then looks back down to his phone. She's listed as "The Not-Avenger Avenger", and there's an option under the name to send her a text.

He gets a flash of an image of her sitting in some dark, cheap apartment somewhere, nursing a glass of whiskey, her shoulders and neck solid with tension, eyes wild with panicked rage, and he taps the button, opening up a conversation with her.


	8. Puzzles and Mysteries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jessica works on a case, and a new client visits her at the office with an interesting proposition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy the chapter - let me know what you think!

Jessica is hunched over her desk, elbows leaning on the marked wood, staring down at her laptop screen. The whiskey glass in her hand is slowly emptying, lifting to her lips every thirty seconds or so, and the bottle she's topping it up with is within reach on the side of the desk. She's working on the last of the four cases she had lost all the evidence for during the Battle of New York, as the media has taken to calling it, and honestly she doesn't feel that confident that she's ever going to finish it. She might have accidentally been a little obvious in her evidence-gathering before the attack and given the cheating husband a cocky wave when he caught her taking pictures, and now he seems to have stopped the affair she was about to nail him with altogether. Her client is _not_ happy, and has been positively offensive in her demands for evidence over the last couple weeks.

As for the other three cases, though, Jessica had managed to work up sufficient evidence to satisfy - though belatedly - her clients enough that she got three healthy wads of cash for her efforts. Said cash has gone towards her consistent alcohol shelf, and a new front door.

" _Mrs Harper_?"

Jessica swallows her mouthful of whiskey and sniffs loudly into the phone, her face scrunching in anguish. "Yeah?" she asks, her voice choked.

" _I've searched through our database, and I can't find any profiles that match your husband's name, age, location, and occupation_ ," the woman says.

Jessica grits her teeth, glaring down into her lap for a moment. "Are you sure?" she bites out, struggling to maintain the distressed-wife persona.

" _Yeah, I'm sure. I looked real hard, sweetie. If I was anyone else, I'd say that maybe it's just that he isn't actually cheating on you - but I've had my fair share of douchebags like him, and you just gotta trust your gut, okay_?" the woman says empathetically.

Jessica's lip curls at her tone. "Can't I send in a picture of him or something and you can check it against your-"

" _Oh, honey, I'm sorry, but I really couldn't. I've already taken a huge risk searching our databases for his information. If I got caught, I'd get fired, and I really can't afford that right now_."

Jessica sighs frustratedly into the phone. "Fine," she grunts, and she pulls the phone away from her ear to hang up the call and toss it onto her desk.

It hits the wood with a small clatter, drawing the man's attention from her doorway. Jessica avoids his gaze and lifts her glass to her lips, tossing back another swallow of whiskey. She ducks her head back down to her laptop and continues to scroll through Mr Harper's social media profiles in search of any suspicious comments or likes.

"That don't sound too ethical, what you're doin'," the man at her door says, his pale-blue boiler suit covered in oil and paint. His skin is slick with a thin layer of sweat, his hair greased back out of his face, and his hands are busy with tools.

"Yeah?" Jessica retorts boredly. "Well, that door doesn't look too straight."

The man scowls, almost pouting, and turns back to the new door he's installing for her. She's getting one like she had in her old apartment, with the glass window reading "Alias Investigations" in the gold writing, and it feels _good_ to have some kind of normalcy in this new place. Since she moved in two weeks ago, she's had Malcolm wandering in and around like a lost puppy, Trish begging to come round and see the place, no new clients walking in off the street, and a text-happy Stark making her phone buzz every other day - the new door feels like the first step on the path of going back to how things were before the alien attack, and she's very eager to reach that destination.

While she isn't really _that_ annoyed by Malcolm and his senseless wanderings, she knows that she would rather Trish took a step back again and left her to deal with everything in the privacy of her own whiskey bottle, and she knows that she'd _really_ rather Stark stop texting her the most nonchalant, trivial things every other day, even though she never replies and shows no indication of wanting or enjoying the texts. The worst thing is that the longer the two of them persist, the guiltier she starts to feel - and she _hates_ that because she shouldn't feel guilty when they're the ones insisting on the contact that they know she doesn't reciprocate or appreciate.

"Hey, Jessica, there's a man in your apartment," Malcolm's slurred voice trudges through the open door. A moment later, the young man leans - seemingly unintentionally - against the wall in the hallway and peers into her apartment.

"Thanks, Malcolm. I hadn't noticed," she intones, taking another drink.

"What's he doing?"

Jessica glances at the man's back as he tightens the hinges on the doorframe before looking back to Malcolm, wondering where exactly he's trying to settle his own gaze when his eyes are rolling so aimlessly. "Putting in a new door," she replies. "You should go lie down, Malcolm."

Malcolm's forehead furrows gently. "Is he Tony?" he slurs.

Jessica's face scrunches with exasperation. Malcolm has really fixated on who "Tony" is after Stark had messaged her that night they first met, having hacked her phone and put himself in her contact list. She's lost track of the amount of times she's been asked "Who's Tony?" or "Was that Tony?" and it's really starting to piss her off. She'd been wary of his insistent curiosity at first, but now she thinks it might just be Malcolm trying in his drugged-up mind to connect with Jessica and form some kind of friendship. She just wishes he'd fixate on something _else_ when she's trying so hard to repress the time she spent around those nerds.

"No," Jessica responds, adopting a firmer tone. "Go to bed, Malcolm. Sleep it off."

Malcolm nods dazedly. "Okay," he mumbles, slowly turning himself around to stumble towards his door.

Jessica leans her head to see the door better, realising that it's hanging open and Malcolm must have come out of his apartment to come ask her who the man was in hers. She frowns at his nosiness, wondering - not for the first time - whether his curiosity is malicious in any way; but he genuinely just seems like a decent young guy who's had some shitty luck and wound up in a shitty situation. It's hard not to feel some ounce of concern for the kid, and she's already had to stop herself from reenacting her attempts to help Trish with her addiction, knowing it's not her place, or something she even really wants to do.

"I, uh- I know a guy who makes pretty solid locks for a good price," the man at her door says quietly, looking over his shoulder at her.

Jessica tries not to smirk. "He's harmless."

"I'm sure there are people in this building who aren't," he retorts gloomily.

Jessica lifts her bottle to pour another glass of whiskey. "There are," she shrugs. The bottle thuds dully against the wood when she puts it back down, her fingers moving to curl around her glass again, and she looks up at the man's silence to catch him watching her warily. "Just finish the door, man," she mutters, rolling her eyes as she lifts her glass to her mouth.

She stares at the picture of the cheating husband, Rick Harper, on her laptop screen, swallowing the whiskey with a twinge of a grimace. Rick's social media presence has decreased significantly since Jessica was stupid enough to give him that cocky wave, and his wife had reported that there were no incriminating messages on his phone when she'd managed to look through it one day. Jessica has staked out his office building for three random days and he has never slunk off to go meet anyone, nor has he been leaving home earlier than usual or returning later than usual. In fact, it seems as though he is spending as much time with his wife as he can and as much time in work as he can. He doesn't use his work computer to message anyone, doesn't seem to have a secret phone, doesn't look like he uses his office phone to call anyone, but his wife is _convinced_ that he's still actively cheating, so Jessica has to keep investigating.

Sighing to herself, Jessica picks her phone up again and goes into her call history, selecting the number she recognises as Mrs Harper's. The woman picks up almost instantly.

" _Hello? Jones?_ " she asks quickly.

"Hi, yeah," Jessica mutters. "What time is your husband gonna be at his work tomorrow?"

" _I thought you'd already watched him while he was at work? What happened with the dating apps_?"

Jessica rolls her eyes, removing her fingers from her whiskey glass to rub at her jaw. "I didn't get anywhere with the apps - if he had a profile before, he's eradicated it now. I think tailing him and waiting for him to slip up is gonna be the best option, at this point."

The woman sighs harshly. " _If you have ruined my chance to shove proof in that smug bastard's face-_ "

"Enough with the threatening, alright?" Jessica cuts in, face scrunching with bored irritation. "It's not my fault that aliens decided to attack the city and blow up my building." Although, it _is_ her fault that she got cocky and alerted Rick, but she has kept that piece of information to herself for obvious reasons. "Just tell me when he's going into work tomorrow."

" _Fine_ ," Mrs Harper bites out. " _He's going in for, uh, eight o'clock, I think_."

"Great, thanks," Jessica replies dully. "I'll let you know if I find anything."

She hangs up before the woman can make any more threats. While she's not confident that she can actually finish this case, she knows that her life will be a whole lot less miserable if she can get pissy Mrs Harper out of it. Spending the day watching Rick tomorrow will be worth it in the end if she manages to give Mrs Harper some kind of evidence.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Jessica wakes up the next morning to her phone buzzing, the screen lighting up in front of her face. She lets out a groan and slaps at the screen to stop the alarm with one hand, while the other lifts to press into her eyes. For a moment, she almost considers turning over and going back to sleep, but she remembers Mrs Harper's infuriating nagging and pathetic threats and ultimately decides her quality of life will be much improved if she forces herself to get up and out of bed.

She eyes the screen for any notifications and, for the first time since he hacked into her phone two weeks ago, notices an absence of texts from Stark. He usually texts every other day, making some comment about the weather or telling her what he's eaten for breakfast or asking what _she's_ eaten for breakfast or asking about the fairing of the private investigation industry, but she realises that he was actually due to send a text yesterday, and he didn't - and still hasn't. Her eyes narrow at her phone, wondering what might have caused the lapse in routine for the billionaire, and then tuts to herself and untangles from the sheets to get out of bed. She hasn't responded to any of his texts since the conversation they had when she realised he'd hacked her phone - maybe the great Tony Stark just realised he has better things to do with his time than text an unresponsive, alcoholic asshole every other day for two weeks.

She gets changed into jeans and a white t-shirt, slipping her leather jacket on top and packing her camera and flask of whiskey into her satchel to hang on her shoulder. She allows a small smile and sliver of sentiment when she closes and locks her new door, eyeing the golden lettering on the window with something that might be fondness, before turning to walk down the hall to the elevator.

She's a couple of doors down past Malcolm's when it opens, and she glances over her shoulder to see him pulling his jacket closer around him as he shuffles down the hall after her. "You're up early," she tosses over her shoulder at him.

"What?" he mumbles, his eyes still heavy with sleep and, presumably, drugs.

Jessica rolls her eyes and enters the elevator, holding the door open for him as he stumbles hurriedly after her.

"Thanks," he sighs, glancing at her almost apprehensively.

"You alright?" she intones, quirking an eyebrow at him.

He exhales shakily, rubbing his hands together. "Yeah, why?" he frowns.

Jessica shakes her head and looks to the doors, waiting for them to open up in the lobby. "Don't think I've ever seen you up this early."

"You often up at this time?" he counters.

Jessica tilts her head appreciatively, nearly taken aback by the sudden hint of a personality - usually he's so high he's just vague, confused, mumbled sentences. "Fair point," she smirks. She glances at him when the doors slide open, noting the reluctant curiosity on his face, waiting for him to ask what she's doing up at this time; but he doesn't say anything, and she walks out of the elevator. "See you later, Malcolm," she says.

She makes her way through the city to an apartment building by Rick's office tower and heads to the vantage point on the fire escape. Taking out her phone, she glances first at the time and then at the blank space where there's still a lack of text notifications, refusing to let herself think any further on the subject than the acknowledgement of the continued absence. Rick's office is still dark, so he hasn't arrived at work yet - Jessica's just going to have to wait for him to show up and try not to fall asleep in the meantime.

Twenty minutes pass before she spots him getting out of his taxi and sauntering towards the doors to his office building. The cautious glance he throws over his shoulder makes her smirk, and she pulls her camera out of her satchel and turns it on. Her gaze switches to the windows of his office when he disappears into the building and she waits patiently until his lights turn on and he closes the door behind him. She lifts the camera to her face, peering through the view finder, and watches him as he hangs up his jacket and wanders to his desk.

And, for the first time since she's watched him, he doesn't stand in the way when he signs in to his computer, typing out his password on the keyboard that he has left so helpfully within her sight. She zooms in on his fingers, watching the keys he taps, thanking whatever gods might exist that he types with a single finger on each hand and not very quickly.

"Sullivan spring 202," Jessica mutters, eyes narrowing as she pulls her face away from the camera. She tilts her head, an amused smirk stretching into her cheeks, glancing at the street name signs on the corner. " _That_ is your password? Seriously?"

But something occurs to her. If he's willing to use the street names his office building sits on for his password, and the street names put together could almost be taken as an actual name without much confusion, maybe he's listed himself somewhere as a man called Sullivan Spring. Surely that isn't too much of a stretch, to wonder if he's used those names as an alias? She had already suspected he'd decided to list himself under a false name to avoid detection when he knew she was onto him and he no longer existed on any dating apps.

She files the idea away for investigation later, deciding to continue with her original plan of tailing him throughout his work day today just in case he slips up again. It's maybe been so long that he's starting to relax, and he might give her an even easier opportunity to catch him in the act. If not, maybe she'll break into his office and get into his computer now that she knows his password.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Of course, since nothing goes simply for Jessica in her mess of a life, Rick Harper doesn't slip up at all during his day, and when she receives a text from Mrs Harper confirming that he didn't stop off anywhere on his way home, Jessica resigns herself to searching online for a Sullivan Spring.

She sighs at the text on her phone and slips it back into her pocket, lifting her head as the elevator doors slide open on her floor. Instantly, she notices a man at her door, standing so straight it must be painful, his head unmoving as he stares at her window. Jessica falters for a moment, watching him with a slight furrow in her brow, subconsciously clenching her fingers into a fist.

When she starts to walk down the hallway, he still doesn't turn at the noise. But he knocks on her door as if she's in her apartment. She isn't sure how long he's been waiting for, knocking and receiving no answer, but it's clearly been long enough for Malcolm to open his door and stare out at the man unblinkingly. The whole scene makes Jessica tense and uneasy, her shoulders stiffening when the whispers start to crawl over the skin on the back of her neck. Something really doesn't feel right.

Malcolm finally turns to look at her when she approaches his door, face scrunching in that strange curiosity, his mouth opening to speak, but she cuts him off before he can ask that infuriating question again. "No, Malcolm," she intones. His frown deepens, but his mouth shuts, and she looks to the man at her door again. "Can I help you?" she asks.

It seems as though he has to make some amount of effort to turn his head away from her door and look at her over his shoulder. "Are you Jessica Jones?" he asks stiffly.

Jessica's eyes narrow. "Who's asking?"

The man blinks. "I have a job for Jessica Jones. I need to speak to Jessica Jones."

Jessica's mouth twists with her confused wariness. "Okay," she says, glancing at Malcolm and jerking her head to silently order him back in his own apartment.

When he does, she reaches into her jacket pocket for her keys and steps towards the door, keeping her potential client in her peripherals when he moves out of the way to let her in. She unlocks the door and pushes it open, leaving it that way as a silent invitation to the man. His footsteps shuffle in behind her while she walks to her desk, dropping her satchel to the floor and slumping down into her chair.

The man is still hovering at her door, his fingers grasping the handle. "You're Jessica Jones?" he asks.

Jessica gives him a look. "What gave it away?" When he doesn't respond or react in any way, she rolls her eyes. "Yeah, I'm Jessica Jones. What's the job?"

He nods to himself and closes her door before trudging over to the chair on the other side of her desk. "Are you a part of the Avengers?" he asks.

Jessica's face scrunches with indignation instantly. "What are you, some undercover reporter trying to get a hot scoop?" she snaps. "How many times do I have to tell you people that I'm not a part of that goddamn team? You can get the hell out of my office if you're just gonna ask stupid questions."

The man blinks, his head tilting slightly. "Sorry. I just had to make sure."

Jessica allows her confusion to contort her face, shaking her head. "Whatever. Do you have a job or not?"

He reaches a hand out to touch the back of the chair in front of him, but he doesn't sit down. "I want you to find dirt on Tony Stark," he says plainly.

Jessica blinks. She watches him for a moment, trying to find a motive in his eyes, but comes up blank. The chair creaks a little when she leans back, crossing her legs at her ankles, licking her lips to stall while she thinks of how to respond. She is suddenly hyper-aware of her phone in her pocket, where she still hasn't seen a notification of a text from the billionaire.

"Haven't the tabloids found enough over the years?" she asks finally.

The man's face twitches. "I need dirt on Tony Stark. Something other people don't know about."

Jessica pulls her lip into her mouth and scrapes her teeth along it, leaning forward in her chair again to reach down to her satchel and pull her flask of whiskey out. The lid scrapes noisily against the bottle as she unscrews it, looking up at the man again. "He do something to you?"

"Do you need that kind of information to be able to do the job?" he counters.

Jessica gives him an empty smirk, lifting the flask to her lips to take a sip. She tilts her head at him when she swallows. "Not usually," she shrugs concedingly. "But I've never had a job investigating a public figure of his standing before, so."

"I'll pay you. Good money."

"Yeah, I'd expect so," she replies, taking another sip. He meets her gaze steadily and firmly, and she knows she won't get an answer out of him. "What kind of dirt are we talking about, here?" she intones.

The man shrugs. "Anything that could damage his reputation."

She quirks an eyebrow. "Isn't that ambiguous enough as it is?"

"They're making him out to be a hero," the man says tightly. His face stiffens a little with tension. "Are you one of them or not?"

Jessica tries to dampen the glare in her eyes. "I already told you, I'm not with them."

"So, is there a more personal reason you don't want to do this or-"

"Okay, alright, take it easy," she mutters, rolling her eyes. "Suspicion comes with the job. What kind of timeframe are you looking at?"

The man's posture relaxes somewhat. "I'll come back here this time next week and see what you have to offer."

Jessica stares at him for a moment. "Alright. You wanna give me your name and phone number so I can-"

"I can't," he says, his eye twitching. Jessica tries not to frown suspiciously. "Just find out what you can and I'll come back next week to see how far you've got."

She leans back in her chair again, her whiskey flask forgotten momentarily. She takes a breath and then shrugs a shoulder again. "Alright, I guess I'll see you next week, then. I'll set you up on a normal contract just-"

"I'd rather not have any paperwork tying me to this," he cuts in, taking his hand off the chair. "But I can assure you, you'll be paid more than your normal contract charges."

Jessica stares at him. She supposes it makes sense when he's going after a giant like Stark. "Fine. I'll see what I can find out."

He gives her a stiff nod and then turns and walks to her door, swiftly exiting the apartment.

Jessica sits there, staring at the door, her forehead slowly pulling downwards in unsettled confusion. She lifts a hand to rub at the back of her neck, rolling her shoulders as if the movement will push the whispers away. Then she makes a decision.

Moving quickly, she screws the lid back on her flask and drops it into her satchel again. She pulls the strap of her satchel over her shoulder and marches through to her bedroom, tossing it and her jacket onto her bed before moving to her wardrobe. She drags out an oversized hooded jumper and a different jacket, pulling them onto her body quickly and pulling her hood up, tucking her hair into the jumper. She snatches up her satchel again and pulls it across her torso, walking over to her bedroom window to slide it open and peer down at the street.

She spots her new client leaving the building and turning left to walk down the street. She double-checks underneath her window and to the right, making sure there aren't any nearby witnesses, and then she vaults out of her window to plummet down to the sidewalk below. Her boots slap against the ground and she ducks her face under her hood, burying her hands in her jacket pockets, waiting as she walks forward a few steps before she risks a glance. He doesn't seem to have clocked her.

She follows him through the city, realising after a few blocks that he doesn't seem at all worried that someone might be following him; but she keeps her head ducked and stays a distance away just in case. They walk for about twenty minutes before he moves off the sidewalk to enter an apartment building, and he's so oblivious that she's able to sneak in after him, follow him up the stairs, and watch at the corner to see which apartment he goes into.

She works out what side of the building she needs to get eyes on and gets back out onto the street, finding a nearby fire escape to jump up to. She settles in, pulling her camera out of her satchel, and starts to peer in through his windows. When she finds him, he's on the phone to someone, speaking stiffly, and she takes the opportunity to snap a few pictures. He finishes the call after a moment, heads into his kitchen to make some dinner, and then settles onto his couch in the living room to watch TV.

Jessica lowers her camera to frown over at his apartment, eyes narrowing slightly. It's not as though the man has an air of someone who has been betrayed or degraded at the hands of Stark, nor has he gone to meet with any accomplices after seeing her. Maybe the person on the other end of the phone call was who told him he "couldn't" give her any contact details, but there's no way to tell at the moment. She pulls out her flask of whiskey and unscrews the top again, letting a deep sigh tumble out of her lips at the realisation that she'll likely be spending the night watching this guy to see if he gives her any clues about his motivation for finding dirt on Stark.

And so, sitting cramped on the metal fire escape with nothing but her whiskey to keep her warm, Jessica sits and watches her new client. She watches him watch TV for hours, and then she watches him go round his apartment and turn all the lights off before retreating into his bedroom. But just because he's gone into that room doesn't mean he won't get up to anything shady in the middle of the night, so she leans back against the railing and keeps herself awake.

When she slips her phone out of her pocket, she looks again at the lack of notifications and allows a miniscule frown. It's not like she _misses_ Stark's random messages; she just isn't sure whether his silence is an indication that something has gone wrong, that he's in trouble in some way, and it doesn't help that there's some random guy looking for dirt on him.

But she didn't go on her phone to get distracted by Stark, so she goes into the App Store and downloads the most popular dating app, taking a moment to consider what Rick Harper's type is before she uses stock images and lies to build a profile for herself. She makes sure to send plenty of glances at her new client's apartment while she works on her other case, just in case he springs out of bed while she's not looking. The profile made and passably authentic, Jessica goes about setting a range of filters to try and narrow her matches down to what Rick's profile will feature - and then comes the arduous process of flicking through the hundreds of men on the app to try and find Rick.

It's really no wonder that she ends up drifting off two hours later, her head leaning back against the metal railing of the fire escape.

" _Jessica_!"

She flinches awake, eyes wide and panicked, lungs straining to suck in air and expel it in heavy bursts. Her neck twinges when she throws her head back and forth to look around her, scouring the darkness for a sign of the pale face that haunts her, the harsh echo of his voice slowly ebbing away in the walls of her mind. Nothing gets her heart hammering so painfully and erratically like the threat of his voice and its power - its power over _her_.

But he's not here. He's dead. And she tells herself this over and over and over again, endeavouring to regain some kind of control and rhythm in her breathing.

"Main Street. Birch Street."

She lets out a shaky sigh, leaning her head back with a thump against the railing again.

"Higgins Drive. Cobalt Lane."

Her heart gradually slows, thumping at a softer pace, and the world around her seems to come back into focus, her eyes and ears feeling more clear after being so hazy in her panic.

"Shit," she hisses softly, closing her eyes and clenching her jaw. She unwraps her hand from around the railing behind her when she realises she'd clutched it in her fear.

He's gone and she doesn't need to worry about him anymore.

She takes a deep breath and opens her eyes again, turning to look over at her mysterious client's apartment. Nothing appears any different, but a glance at her phone tells her that she might have been dozing for a couple of hours, so she could have missed something.

It's getting close to 5am, and she notices again that Stark hasn't texted her. She licks her lips and stretches her legs out in front of her, unlocking her phone to open up their conversation in her messages. Most texts he's sent have come around 6am, so she figures he'll probably be awake by now, or nearly there.

She brings up the keyboard. " _Hey, it's Jones. You at the Tower?_ " she types. And she hits send.


	9. A Little Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jessica goes to see Tony about her latest client, and realises what state he's in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy this chapter! There's going to be more explicit mentions of PTSD from here-on-out, by the way. Also I don't have any experience with PTSD so I'm sorry if I don't portray it properly.

Jessica steps out of the cab onto the sidewalk, securing the strap of her satchel on her shoulder. The sun beats down on the street and the pedestrians bustling past each other, tourists clumped in static groups staring up the street towards Stark Tower, chattering and pointing at the remnants of the Battle of New York. The majority of the damaged buildings are under repair still, but most of the dangerous parts were cleaned up within a few days with Stark's funding. The memory of the battle sits uncomfortably in her mind when she glances around at the remnants, and she rolls her shoulders in a preventative motion against the threat of whispers on her neck.

Jessica's attention drifts to the Tower up the street, and she squints against the sunlight with a reluctant curl of her lip. She hasn't had a reply from the billionaire since she asked if he was at the Tower this morning, and it's now nearly 4pm. She had watched her mysterious client go into work around 9am, and had kept an eye on him there while she continued to swipe her way through the dating app she downloaded to catch Rick Harper, and all through that time, Stark never replied. When her new client seemed painfully normal and not at all suspicious - save for the job he gave her - she had hailed a cab and directed the driver towards Stark Tower.

It's now been two days since Stark should have texted her his morning nonsense, if he was sticking to his routine, and she probably would have been able to go about her business without much guilt if that was all that was wrong. But, no, she decided to text him this morning, and _now_ she knows that he's not replying to her text, which makes things slightly more disconcerting and hard to ignore. So, here she is, stomping her way along the sidewalk to his Tower, keeping her head ducked and hair in her face to avoid the tourists that have covered themselves in merch that has somehow _already_ been created for the Avengers. The last thing Jessica Jones needs is for some stupid civilian to recognise her, hound her, and then tell everyone that she's gone into Stark Tower again.

Luckily, they're distracted enough by the exploded buildings and massive "A" at the top of Stark Tower and whether that means it's now _Avengers_ Tower to notice Jessica slipping right under their noses. She glances up at the building as she heads towards the sliding doors at the entrance, squinting as if she'll be able to spot Stark's face pressed up against a window.

The lobby is a little quieter than it was the last time she was here. Most of the bodies marching around are workmen of some sort, presumably still fixing the upper floors damaged in the Battle. Other people seem to be employees of Stark Industries, wearing suits and skirts and lab coats, or important visitors with identification badges and briefcases. Jessica winces to herself - it's painful how little she fits in here.

"Good afternoon, ma'am! How can I help you?" the twenty-something man at the reception desk greets politely. He glances over her face, his back straightening as she approaches, but if he recognises her from the news, he gives no sign of it.

Jessica lifts a hand to lean on the top of the desk. "Yeah, uh, is Stark here today?" she asks quietly.

"I'm not actually sure, at the moment. He comes and goes, I think," the young man replies, turning his gaze to his computer.

Jessica lifts a doubtful eyebrow. "You think?" she repeats. Surely the billionaire with the massive personality is easier to keep track of than that.

"Do you have an appointment?" he asks.

"Uh, no, I don't," she answers flatly, glancing around. Nobody is watching her, but her lips purse.

"Usually, you need to make an appointment to see Mr Stark," the young man says, giving her an empathetic wince. "And that was before all the drama with the, uh- with the, um-"

"Aliens?" she mutters, striving not to roll her eyes.

"Uh, yeah. Those."

She has half a mind to turn away and give up. But she sighs. "Alright, how do I make an appointment, then?"

"Well, you need to-" the young man begins cheerfully, but his computer pings and his gaze snaps to the monitor instantly. "Oh," he blurts, eyebrows lifting. "Mr Stark is indeed in the Tower today. If you go into the second elevator along, I'll have it take you up to him."

Jessica lifts an eyebrow, glancing at the ceiling to try and find a camera, but the lobby must have some fancy ones that are more subtle than your average bodega's CCTV system. "Great, thanks," she intones, following the direction he's indicated with his left arm.

She finds the second elevator open and waiting for her, and she takes a moment to allow herself the opportunity to turn around and walk out. But she just ends up getting into the elevator and leaning her back against the railing on the side wall, shoving her hands into the pockets of her leather jacket. The doors chime softly as they close over the gap and one of the buttons on the panel next to them glows a warm yellow.

" _Hello, Miss Jones_ ," JARVIS' voice emanates from the metal box. " _It is a pleasure to see you again_."

Jessica grimaces at the uneasiness the voice triggers in her chest. "Wish I could say the same," she mutters. Her fingers slip into her satchel, reaching for her flask of whiskey, and she pulls it out to take a drink.

" _Mr Stark will be pleased to see you_ ," JARVIS continues. " _It has been over a week since he last had a visitor._ "

Jessica swallows some whiskey down, eyeing the opposite wall of the elevator as if JARVIS is in it. She's not really sure what the programme expects her to say or feel in response to that statement. It just kind of rolls off of her without much thought, and she refuses to wonder if that makes her a shitty person - she _knows_ she's a shitty person. Deciding it's not worth her time to think about, Jessica screws the lid back on her flask and redeposits it in her satchel again just as the elevator slows its ascent.

The doors chime softly again and slide open, revealing a hallway she's actually familiar with. It's the one that leads to the smaller back-up lab Stark had brought her to the last time she had been here. Apparently his main lab had been damaged in the Battle and he'd had to relocate while they redesigned and rebuilt the upper floors.

Jessica steps out of the elevator and walks down the hallway, eyes searching through the glass walls into the lab for Stark. She only spots him hunched over one of his desks when she opens the door to the lab and slips in.

He's wearing a long-sleeved tee, the cuffs rolled up to just under his elbows, and a pair of grey sweats, by the looks of things. He's also only wearing socks on his feet, and they're an odd pair. She can see his left hand holding something on the desk, but she can only tell his right hand is doing something because of his shoulder blade shifting under his t-shirt. The left side of his head is just slightly angled towards her so that she can make out the hint of a curl in his hair around his ear - she can't say she's ever even seen a picture of him with his hair so long it exposed itself as curly, but there it is.

And it all just makes her feel ever-so-slightly _wary_.

"Hey, Stark," she says, loud enough to break his attention away from whatever he's working on.

She doesn't miss the tension that jumps across his shoulders at her voice, his chin swinging over his shoulder to look round at her. And his eyes, for a moment so quick she almost misses it, flash with panic above the dark bags on his skin.

"Jones," he replies, and his voice is steady and upbeat despite his appearance. "And here I thought you were cutting all ties with us 'nerds'."

She glances at the easy smile he wears, but his skin is pale and he looks exhausted. He swivels his chair around to face her straight-on, his fingers loosely grasping a small tool that he begins to bounce softly on his thigh.

Something in Jessica's heart urges her to ask how he's doing. "This isn't a social call, don't get your hopes up," she intones, pushing her guilt aside.

He gives her a flat smile that feels false and forced. "Do you leave a trail of broken hearts wherever you go?" he quips.

She smirks. "Try bones."

He sucks in a breath, eyes narrowing at her. "Ooh, spooky," he teases.

Jessica rolls her eyes and casts her gaze down to her hip, her fingers opening her satchel. "I've got something to show you," she tells him.

"Better not be bones, 'cause it's too early for serial-killer show and tell."

Jessica lifts her gaze to throw him a brief glare before redirecting her attention to retrieving her camera. "It's 4pm, Stark. It's not early."

"Uh, time is a manmade construct and I will interpret it however I see fit, thank you," he mutters. When she glances over at him, she catches the confused scowl on his face as he checks his watch. He gives a small shake of his head and drops his hand into his lap, lifting his gaze to meet hers again. A quick smile pulls at his lips as he cocks his head at her. "What've you got to show me? Is it why you look so exhausted?" he asks.

Incredulity contorts her face. She trudges over to him at his desk, noticing just how dark and drained his eyes are, noticing the untidy - but not unappealing - stubble along his jaw and cheeks, the unintentional unruliness of his curling hair, the faltering of his smile. She licks her lips, frowning down at him, irritated by the state of him but nowhere-near interested in sitting down and having a heart-to-heart with him.

"Yeah, actually, it is," she answers flatly. "But I can promise you I don't look half as shitty as you do."

Stark's eyebrows push inwards, his lips pouting a little, the perfect image of a wounded ego. "I didn't say you look _shitty_ ," he retorts. "In fact, I'd say you look fant-"

"I have something to show you," Jessica says again, her voice firm and loud to cut through whatever nonsense he was about to throw at her. He gives her a disapproving look, but closes his mouth to smirk. She turns her camera on and brings up the photos she took of her latest client, twirling the device on her palm to show him the screen. "Know him?" she asks.

Stark holds her gaze for another moment, lifting an eyebrow at her, until he finally rolls his eyes and directs his attention to the man in the photos. He sighs, blinks, and narrows his eyes as he leans in closer. Jessica watches him and tilts her head to get a better view of his face, even though she can already see it clearly enough. She's hoping that Stark will recognise the man as someone he once pissed off or ran out of business, or someone with known bad-guy connections or something. If he doesn't recognise him, she knows she's going to have to investigate properly, and the thought of that pisses her off.

Her tongue pushes against the inside of her lower lip when Stark makes a lost expression and leans back in his chair, shaking his head. "Am I _supposed_ to know who he is? Or have I ruined a punchline?" he asks, cocking his head at her.

Jessica sighs and turns her camera off again, moving to go slump in a chair at a desk opposite his. She stuffs the camera back in her satchel with more force than necessary and stretches her legs out, crossing them at the ankles. "It would have saved me some annoyance," she mutters. She crosses her arms over her chest and turns her head away to look around the lab, debating whether she'll actually start investigating this mysterious man to figure out why exactly he'd want dirt on Stark.

The lab is messier than the last time she was in it, with even more drawings and designs littered on the desks and floor. There are a multitude of monitors in the room and they each appear to be displaying something different, but they all look as though they're related to the Iron Man suit - or, at least, variations of it. She frowns at the screen closest to her, trying to make out the design of this suit, wondering how many different designs Stark's working on at the moment. She didn't even realise there would be a suit that _wasn't_ his iconic gold and red look.

"Are you just _not_ gonna explain this man and why you wanted me to know him?" Stark asks pointedly across from her.

Jessica pushes aside her wonderings about Stark's sudden multitude of suit designs and turns her head to meet his expectant gaze. "He came to me with a job yesterday," she answers. "Wanted me to find dirt on you."

Stark rolls his eyes and turns his chair back to his desk, resuming his tinkering. "How original," he mutters.

Jessica narrows her eyes at him, a small, disbelieving smile pulling at her mouth. "You don't wanna know _why_?" she asks.

Stark lowers his tools suddenly and turns to look at her, cocking his head with a confused expression. "Is this what you lost sleep over? Wondering why some guy wants dirt on a billionaire?"

Jessica scowls, her head physically recoiling in her defensiveness. "I _thought_ that you'd want to know more than the fact that he'd given me the job. So I staked out his apartment last night."

Stark gives her a tiny smirk before he resumes with his tool. "You could've just called and I'd have told you to ignore it."

"Would you have picked up?" she challenges, irritated by the situation. "You've been a little MIA."

She sees his eyebrow lift from her side-on view of his face. His tool sparks a little as he prods it into the chunk of tech in his other hand. "You gonna tell me you've been keeping tabs on me while you were purposefully avoiding my messages?"

"You're not gonna make me feel bad, if that's what you're trying to do," she intones.

"I know I'm talented, but I am aware there are some things in life that really _are_ impossible."

There's a sharp edge to his tone that has her hackles rising further, and the whispers tickle smugly across the back of her neck at the implications of his words. She wants to snap back at him, insult him, take a stab at _his_ morals, but he shifts in his seat and the light of the lamp on his desk catches one of the dark bags under his eyes again, and Jessica grinds her teeth together to trap any retorts in her throat.

She has a sudden, horrible realisation that she and Stark might actually have some common qualities - namely, the tendency to lash out at someone as a defense and distraction from topics that even vaguely reference emotions.

"Look, something felt off to me about the guy," she says, unable to keep the bite from her voice. "Normally I wouldn't have given a shit if someone wanted to blackmail a little money out of a billionaire's pocket."

"So, you _do_ care," Stark comments in a fluffy voice stuffed with sarcasm.

Jessica takes a deep breath, rolling her shoulders. The whispers on her neck taunt her. "I'm just saying he seemed more suspicious than you'd expect for a blackmailer."

"Well, I wouldn't lose any more sleep over it, if I were you," Stark responds, his voice suddenly tired. "JARVIS shuts down twenty blackmail cases a week. This guy won't be any different."

Jessica tongues the inside of her cheek, irritated by her reluctance to just drop the investigation. It's not that she's concerned for Stark's wellbeing, or that of his reputation; she's just been known to draw a line in the dirt with some cases and turn it round on the client, and she knows from experience that this case is likely one that's going to cross that line.

But maybe Stark's right, and JARVIS will be able to stop any blackmailing before her client does damage.

Frowning curiously, Jessica draws her feet back towards the chair, shuffling herself to sit straighter against its back. She takes the strap of her satchel off her torso and dumps the bag on the desk, drawing a quick glance from Stark; but she ignores him and pulls the chair closer to the desk, leaning in to the monitors in front of her.

"Uh," she mutters, grimacing awkwardly. "JARVIS?"

" _Yes, Miss Jones_?" the programme answers, his voice emanating quietly from the monitor.

"Can you run some kind of facial-recognition programme on one of these photos?"

Stark tuts at the desk across from hers and pushes to his feet. Jessica watches silently as he drags himself further into his lab, tossing the chunk of machinery in his hand onto a nearby table as if he's suddenly lost interest in it.

" _Of course. Please insert the camera's memory card in the back of this monitor_ ," JARVIS instructs.

Jessica retrieves her camera and takes the memory card out. The base of the monitor squeaks slightly when she turns it around to find the appropriate slot in the back, and it squeaks again when she turns it back once the card has been inserted. She goes to open the files, but JARVIS immediately launches into the card and starts sifting through the photos.

" _Which photographs would you like the software to analyse?_ " he asks.

"Uh, any of the ones I took last night," she replies, leaning back in the chair a little awkwardly.

" _Certainly_."

Jessica's eyes narrow, her teeth chewing on the inside of her cheek while she watches JARVIS choose a photograph, highlight her client's face, and display the search in the facial-recognition software on the other monitor on the desk. She glances over the monitor at Stark when he starts to move around again, running a hand through his hair as he stares down at a pile of papers in his other hand, and she frowns. He almost looks drunk, the way he's stumbling around and allowing his attention to jump from one thing to the next without ever really committing to anything. She has a sneaking suspicion that it's actually unusual for him to be so blatant and unrestrained in his obvious exhaustion, which just makes the state of him even worse. She can imagine he usually deflects and distracts and pretends whenever he's around other people - so what does it say about how drained he is that he's not _really_ trying to hide it from her?

Her mouth opens before she can stop herself, words jumping up her throat before her mind can process and approve them, and she asks-

" _The man in the photograph is Thomas King. He is a sales person at an ecommerce company, earning $33,000 a year. His mother and father live in Trenton, New Jersey, and he has a sister, Rowena King, who lives in Philadelphia. None of the King family appear to be in any financial peril. Thomas King appears to live a happy life, judging by his social media, and has shown no previous dislike for Mr Stark. I cannot see a reason for his sudden interest in blackmail._ "

Jessica slumps in the chair, mouth still ajar after JARVIS had thankfully interrupted her near-sentimental mishap. She stares at the screen as the programme shows a profile for this Thomas King, even referencing his sharing of a post supporting the efforts of the Avengers in protecting the city from the alien invasion. It makes absolutely no sense that he would come to her office and ask for dirt on Stark, and she can see from tagged videos that his usual persona is completely different from the stiff, suspicious man she met yesterday.

And all of that just makes her feel even more uneasy. Because if this is out of character and without any obvious purpose for Thomas, why the _hell_ is he so insistent on digging up dirt?

"Maybe he's gotten himself tangled with some bad people and they're using him, or something," she mutters to herself, still staring at the screen.

" _Perhaps_ ," JARVIS answers her, making her blink, " _But I cannot see anything to suggest that Thomas King is living anything other than a happy, stable, healthy life_."

She shifts a little uncomfortably in her chair, amazed by the capabilities of JARVIS, but still unnerved. She wouldn't be able to pass over all of the investigating to a programme like him - she enjoys the chase, the challenge, too much to not get her hands dirty. Besides, fancy gadgets aren't her style, or even something she can afford. It wouldn't suit her.

"Does he have any connections to the other blackmailers you've stopped recently?" she asks, lifting her chin.

Just because JARVIS unnerves her and she wouldn't want to use something like him on every case, doesn't mean she won't indulge herself when she's tired and cranky and feeling obligated to investigate this guy for Stark's sake.

" _One moment - I shall cross-reference and search for any connections._ "

"Are you still wasting time on this asshole?" Stark mutters as he wanders past the desk, heading towards the back of the lab.

"Are you talking to JARVIS, or me?" she intones, quirking an eyebrow over her shoulder at him.

"Good question."

"Where are you going?" she frowns, watching him reach for the door.

"To the bathroom, Miss, is that alright with you?" he retorts snarkily, tossing an eye-roll at her when he twists to push the door open with his back.

Jessica glares through the glass at him until JARVIS regains her attention.

" _I cannot find any connections between Thomas King or the rest of his family and the blackmailers I have stopped in the past month._ "

Jessica twirls her chair back to face the monitors, sighing harshly. "Damnit," she mutters. "Doesn't make him any less suspicious."

" _I agree that this is something we should be taking seriously. Mr Stark is no stranger to enemies - and they can be dangerously cunning. He should not be so quick to dismiss Thomas King._ "

"Yeah, well, he doesn't look like he's in a state to care much about anything right now," she comments flatly.

" _I believe Mr Stark is suffering from PTSD after the events in the city two weeks ago. His eating and sleeping habits have deteriorated past any poor standards he displayed before the Battle, and he has stopped seeking company in Dr Banner, Colonel Rhodes, and Miss Potts._ "

"There's only so much you can do," she says quietly, rolling her neck when the whispers tickle across her skin again. "It's not something that can be quickly fixed."

" _It is helpful for Mr Stark to have friends who understand his struggle. Captain Rogers also recognised the symptoms in Mr Stark, and he has attempted to come by several times; though Mr Stark turns him away most days._ "

Jessica sighs through her nose, working her jaw. "Why does it feel like you're trying to guilt me into helping him?" she mutters.

JARVIS doesn't say anything.

Jessica lets her head drop back and lifts a hand to rub her face. She knows PTSD, and she knows it well. She can obviously see that Stark is suffering and, sure, she feels bad for the guy, but Jessica isn't exactly a role-model for overcoming PTSD, nor is she willing to sit around and _talk_ about what she's been going through the last couple years in order to comfort Stark.

But, now, thanks to his fucking AI programme, she's going to feel guilty if she just gets up and leaves Stark to it.

"I'm not gonna be his damn therapist," she tells the room. "I'm not gonna be a shoulder to cry on. I'm not gonna talk about my shit to make him feel better." She grimaces and lifts her head up straight again, crossing her arms over her chest. "All I can offer is, I dunno, my company, I guess. Only when I want to, though. My job and my shit comes first."

" _On behalf of my creator: thank you, Miss Jones_ ," JARVIS replies. His voice is so earnest and emotive, she almost forgets he isn't a real person.

She shifts uncomfortably on her seat, tapping her fingers against her arm. "Are there any decent pizza joints around here?" she asks.

" _That is a wonderful idea. I will get something ordered right away. Might I suggest playing a film on this computer as a distraction?_ "

Jessica's eyes twitch. "Uh, sure, okay," she says, shaking her head in disbelief at the situation unfolding before her.

JARVIS takes it upon himself to pick a film, and Jessica rolls her eyes when _A New Hope_ starts playing on the small monitor. Apparently, he hit play just in time.

"Uh, what the hell are you doing?" Stark asks dully as he comes back into the lab, walking up behind her to see what's on the monitor.

"Passing the time," Jessica shrugs, kicking her feet up onto the desk.

Stark stops next to her and glares incredulously down at her face. "So, you're just gonna invite yourself to sit in my lab and watch a film, and you're gonna watch it on this _tiny_ screen?" he demands, folding his arms grumpily.

She can't decide whether she's more impressed or infuriated that he manages to be so passionate in his stabs at her actions when he's so exhausted. "I ordered pizza, too," she shrugs.

He purses his lips, his head tilting, aggravation swimming in his eyes. But the corner of his mouth twitches. "No," he says simply, uncrossing an arm to push her feet off the desk.

Jessica scowls up at him, mouth gaping at his rudeness. "Excuse me?"

"Get up," he snaps. He turns and storms back towards the door to the lab - although, he doesn't manage to appear very intimidating in his mismatched socks and loose jogging bottoms. "C'mon," he urges impatiently over his shoulder when he sees she isn't following.

"Fine, jesus," she mutters quietly, pushing out of the chair. She barely notices the fact that she leaves her satchel on the desk when she gets up to walk after him.

He leads her silently and grumpily to the elevator, stands glaring at the doors as it takes them a couple floors up, then continues the silence as he marches out into the new corridor and heads along to a set of doors. He stops next to them and crosses his arms again, jerking his head to order her inside.

"You leading me to my death?" she asks boredly.

"TBD," he smirks sarcastically. "Hurry up, Jones."

She rolls her eyes and pushes into the room, eyebrows lifting at the sight that greets her. The room is about the size of her entire apartment, completely blacked out, with a humongous cinema screen on the far wall. Between the doors and the screen, there are five rows of recliner armchairs that stretch from one side of the room to the other. The armchairs sit in pairs, an armrest on each side, to make almost-sofas along the rows.

A moment later, _A New Hope_ automatically starts playing on the giant screen.

"I'm onto you, J," Stark mutters as he stalks past Jessica, slipping into the second row from the back and wandering to the sofa in the middle.

Jessica isn't quite sure if he's talking to her or JARVIS, but she rolls her shoulders and follows the billionaire anyway, slumping down on the other side of the sofa from him.

"You can take your jacket off, you know," Stark comments. "If you're gonna make me do this, you might as well make yourself comfortable."

"Hey, if you'd rather wallow in total isolation with nothing but your gadgets to keep you company, all you need to do is tell me to piss off," she retorts, but she shrugs out of her jacket and tosses it on the sofa next to her.

"Maybe I like the isolation," he counters, lifting his chin stubbornly.

"Yeah, and I drink because it makes me feel all sunshine and rainbows inside," she mutters.

Stark scoffs quietly. "You must be doing it wrong."

Jessica leans back in the recliner and reaches her hand down to find the button to extend the footrest, sinking further into the cushion as the footrest lifts her legs to a comfortable position, the back of the chair tilting backwards simultaneously. She sees Stark doing the same out of the corner of her eye, and tilts her head to look around the room.

"How come this place wasn't damaged in the battle?" she asks.

Stark sniffs. "It's a couple levels below the chaos," he answers.

Jessica arches her chest upwards to crack her back, grunting understandingly. "Bet you're glad it survived."

Stark is quiet for a moment before answering. "I've never used it before, actually."

Jessica stares up at the screen, sighing quietly to herself. She's not completely surprised that a billionaire hasn't actually used all the things he's spent thousands of dollars on, but there's just something a little sad about Stark not using a room that's clearly intended to host an audience of people. JARVIS' comments about Stark's lack of social visits rings in her head, and she grits her teeth.

"Where's your assistant?" she asks, uncomfortable, before she remembers a headline she spotted on a tabloid someone was reading in a cafe before the battle. "Aren't you guys supposed to be dating?"

She hears Stark let out a small huff of air and turns her head to look over at him. "She'd be so lucky," he mutters, smirking. The smirk twitches, his gaze averting, and his expression takes on a more bitter display. "No, she, uh, wisely has higher standards than that."

"Ouch," Jessica intones, "Touchy subject?"

Stark plasters a quick smile on his face, one that has Jessica's eyes narrowing. "No, not at all. I'm not pining or anything of the sort. That'd be very off-brand," he quips, and while she can see honesty in his eyes, she can also see sadness. "Just, nobody's got standards low enough for me to reach."

Jessica rolls her eyes and drops her head back on the sofa, finding it very doubtful that someone would pass up the opportunity to be with the one and only Tony Stark. His comment borders on the self-pitying, and she doesn't have much patience for that. "Don't be so melodramatic," she says. Her gaze flicks to the screen and she tunes in somewhat to the movie, but she can feel her teeth grinding, her forehead twitching, and she realises that her body is actually itching to say something genuine and kind to the man who is so-clearly burying a whole world of hurt under his shit-eating grins and humour, despite the wallowing and lashing out. "Also," she says, pursing her lips for a moment, reluctance clogging her throat, "I've met a _lot_ of people who aren't half as okay as you are."

"Wow, you really know how to make a guy feel special."

Jessica takes a breath, tonguing her cheek, and turns to send him a glare. He looks back at her, the corner of his mouth pulling into his cheek with amusement, his forehead furrowed with caution, his eyes wary but curious.

"I _mean_ you're acting like you're a bad person," she bites out. She chews on more words, considering them, considering the potential consequences, and eventually turns her gaze away again, her fingers tapping her arm anxiously. "I've met bad people. You're not one of them."

She can feel Stark's gaze on the side of her face, can sense him analysing the words, wondering at the story behind them, and the whispers seem to ghost up the back of her neck, stretching for her ear.

"Listen, Jones," Stark sighs, shifting in his seat. Jessica's hand clenches into a fist, her teeth grinding. "I know we're both _tremendously_ attractive people, but I don't know if coming onto me when I'm-"

Jessica twists in her seat to punch him in the shoulder, biting back her relieved amusement in the hopes that he can't see it.

"Ow!" he yelps, slapping his hand to his arm, rubbing the sore spot with an indignant scowl on his face, but his eyes are bright and wide with humour.

"Wimp," she smirks.

His expression scrunches in disapproval, his head tilting as he purses his lips at her, his hand still massaging his bicep. "You put a little extra something-something in there, didn't you, you minx?" he says, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

Jessica shrugs, looking away from his animated expression. "I don't know my own strength," she intones.

Stark scoffs quietly, and Jessica has to make a conscious effort to not grin.

They sit and watch the film together, an employee bringing up the pizzas when they arrive, Stark asking him to bring along a bottle of whiskey and a couple glasses, and Jessica has to begrudgingly admit to herself that the evening isn't as exhausting or boring as she thought it'd be. She and Stark manage to avoid discussing anything too heavy, instead skirting around the topics and only implying their existence when the other asks a question too close to home and they end up snapping something back at them - but, apart from that, the conversation is light and easy, taking good-natured jabs at each other and commenting on the movie playing on the giant screen. Jessica tells him about the case of the cheating Rick Harper, and Stark tells her a little about the different kinds of suits he's working on - it definitely sounds like he's putting everything he has into the designs in order to try and avoid his PTSD symptoms, but she isn't one to judge. Like she told JARVIS, all she can offer is her company.

So when she turns to look at Stark and realises he's fallen asleep, his head propped on his fist, his elbow leaning on the armrest, she figures she's done what she can for the night, and leaves him there with the film playing in the background and returns to her apartment, taking herself immediately to her own bed and passing out as soon as she hits the pillow.


	10. Assessments and Theories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jessica has an unexpected visitor.
> 
> She and Tony bounce theories off of each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys like this chapter, and I hope everyone seems in-character! Let me know what you think.

Jessica sits at her desk with her left leg bent at the knee, her ankle resting under her right thigh, her elbow leaning on the armrest to support her head in her hand as she stares up at Mrs Harper. The woman has been switching between angry and upset tears for the last ten minutes, sometimes incapable of looking at the file in her hands, sometimes glaring down at it as if she can set it aflame by sheer will. Jessica had finally found Rick Harper on the dating app she had downloaded and created a fake profile for, and the idiot man had taken the bait faster than she had expected, after how careful he'd been when he knew Jessica was onto him.

She breathes a silent sigh, her eyes dropping to the small, brown packet visible inside Mrs Harper's handbag, running her tongue along her bottom lip distractedly.

"I don't understand," Mrs Harper says shakily, lifting her bloodshot eyes to look at Jessica, who has to quickly and calmly tear her gaze away from the packet in the woman's bag so she doesn't get caught staring. "I went through his phone and I didn't see this app."

Jessica lifts her head away from her hand and allows the limb to drop into her lap. She looks away from her client for a moment, struggling to work up the energy to deal with a distraught wife of a cheating husband. "Maybe he didn't use that phone," she intones, meeting her gaze again. "Maybe he used the website instead of the app. But it's him."

Mrs Harper looks back down at the file, sniffing. Jessica glances again at the brown packet in the woman's bag and her finger taps against her thigh.

"How do people normally confront their partners about this?" Mrs Harper asks shakily.

Jessica's face scrunches a little. "Uh, my involvement in the case usually ends before that part," she says slowly, concerned that the woman's going to ask Jessica to confront him for her or something. But Mrs Harper's face is slowly paling. "Are you worried for your safety?" Jessica asks, her ankle slipping out from under her thigh so she can sit up straight in her chair.

Mrs Harper smiles sadly and sniffs. "No, not at all," she says, letting Jessica relax into her chair again. "It's just the thought of it all actually ending." She takes a breath and lifts her chin away from the file, her gaze finding Jessica's ceiling. "And telling everyone about it."

"Well, it's him that should be embarrassed, not you," Jessica mutters. "He's the scumbag who couldn't keep it in his pants."

Mrs Harper lets out a soft laugh, drawing Jessica's gaze in mild surprise. "He is a scumbag," the woman agrees. "Maybe I should make _him_ tell everyone what he did."

Jessica nods approvingly, a smirk pulling at her mouth. "Seems fair."

Mrs Harper blinks, sighs, and meets Jessica's gaze. "I'm sorry for being short with you whenever we spoke. I've been so on-edge for the last few months with not really knowing what was going on." She closes the file in her hand and pats it with a bittersweet smile. "At least now I know."

Jessica doesn't know what to say to that, so she just nods awkwardly and averts her eyes.

Mrs Harper reaches into her bag and retrieves the brown packet, reaching out to hand it over to Jessica. "It's all in there," she says.

Jessica opens the brown paper and does a quick skim of the notes, estimating that Mrs Harper is correct in her calculation.

"Thank you, Jones," Mrs Harper says earnestly, her voice a little hollow. "You saved me from wasting any more years of my life."

Jessica can only stare uncomfortably at the woman.

Mrs Harper gives her one last nod and then turns around and walks to her door, letting herself out into the hallway.

Deciding to shelve her discomfort, Jessica opens the drawer on her left and tosses the packet of money in. She slips out her phone to delete Mrs Harper's contact information and the dating app she used to catch Rick, and lifts her gaze back to her laptop to close down the tabs she had left open for the case. But something in her doorway catches her eye.

"Another happy customer?" Romanoff smirks.

The redhead is leaning her shoulder against Jessica's door frame, a hand lazily resting on the door handle. Her hair is styled poker-straight, a brown leather jacket on her shoulders with a white t-shirt and dark jeans.

Jessica watches her blankly for a moment, cursing SHIELD to hell and back, before she pushes out of her chair to retrieve a glass from her whiskey shelf and pour herself a drink.

"You know, you could really hurt a girl's feelings doing that," Romanoff's sultry voice floats through the apartment.

"You'll get over it," Jessica intones, screwing the lid back on her whiskey bottle and carrying the glass to her desk. She gives Romanoff her attention once she's sat down and taken a sip. "So, what does Fury want now?"

Romanoff's lips quirk and she moves into the apartment, closing the door behind her. "Who says Fury sent me? Maybe I just wanted a girls night."

Jessica takes another sip and cocks her head at the woman, licking her lips. "Yeah? What're we gonna do? Braid each other's hair and talk about our trauma?"

"Do you _want_ to talk to someone about your trauma?" Romanoff counters, walking slowly around the room, taking everything in.

Jessica rolls her eyes and grits her teeth, turning her head to the side in an attempt to shake the whispers off her neck. "If this is another recruitment attempt, I'm gonna disappoint again." When she turns back to look at Romanoff, the redhead is already watching her, her head cocked slightly.

"Fury hoped fighting with us would have changed your mind," Romanoff admits, crossing her arms over her chest.

Jessica narrows her eyes with a twitch. "You knew it didn't."

Romanoff smirks, giving her a look. "Anyone with eyes could see that."

"Guess you can't fault Fury when he only has one," Jessica shrugs.

The redhead's smirk still curves seductively across her face, but her eyes are calculating as she stares down at Jessica. "Did you enjoy it?" she asks quietly, her smirk fading into a look that seems more curious than anything.

Jessica frowns. Mocking whispers crawl up the back of her neck and into her hairline. "' _Enjoy'_ really isn't the word I'd use."

"Then what word _would_ you use?"

Jessica reaches for her glass to take another drink. "Look, I don't know why Fury's so persistent with this recruitment thing. It's not gonna happen."

"He wants to help you help people," Romanoff says easily, shrugging a shoulder.

"I don't wanna help people the way he wants me to," Jessica mutters, irritated. "I barely wanna help them at all."

"If you didn't want to help people, you'd be intimidating and assaulting them for some bad characters."

"Who says I don't?" Jessica counters, lifting her chin with a hint of a smirk.

"Your last client, for starters." Romanoff retorts calmly. "She sounded pretty happy with the work you did. Something about saving her from wasting more years of her life?"

Jessica rolls her eyes. "Ask Jerry Hogarth about the work I do for _her_."

"We know about that work," Romanoff smirks. "Doesn't change anything."

Jessica takes another drink. "How long are you gonna stand there and try convince me to join your stupid team?"

"I'm not trying to convince you," Romanoff says. "You'd have said yes by now if I was."

Jessica throws her an unconvinced glance. "Then, what're you doing?"

"Just having a conversation," Romanoff replies innocently.

Jessica narrows her eyes. "You trying to figure me out, Romanoff?"

"I need to go back to Fury with _something_ ," the redhead retorts playfully.

Jessica's mouth twitches of its own accord. "What're you gonna tell him?"

"That you're not suited for the team."

Jessica wonders if Romanoff wants her to react defensively, to feel offended, to work to prove them all wrong. But, for once, she's in total agreement with the criticism from a stranger, the whispers tickling her neck, and the truth in her heart. "That's a relief," Jessica intones honestly. "How can you see it, but he can't?"

The question was somewhat rhetorical, but Romanoff quirks an eyebrow. "Honestly?"

"Sure," Jessica shrugs, taking another drink.

"There's a possibility that you'd be a liability," Romanoff explains. Her words are stated simply, without judgement or insult, and Jessica finds it refreshing coming from a SHIELD representative. "You're clearly still recovering from the trauma you suffered two years ago, and I'm not confident that it wouldn't get in the way of your ability to work in a team and concentrate in a fight. You did well in the Battle, but you were driven by your anger - and, even then, you slipped."

Jessica licks her lips at the mention of what happened, turning her gaze away a moment to concentrate on silencing the memories that flare. "How much do you know?" she asks quietly, her tone flat and dull.

"Enough," Romanoff replies.

Jessica grits her teeth, knowing that means SHIELD likely knows everything. She wonders how many of the team she fought alongside knew then, or know now.

She wonders if Stark knows.

"Fury only told me before I came here," Romanoff says. She leaves the rest unspoken: _no one else knows_. It unnerves Jessica that the woman knew what she was worried about.

"Well, you can tell Fury that I agree with your assessment," Jessica says, giving the redhead a tense smile before she takes another drink.

Romanoff nods in a way that signals she's done with the interaction. She uncrosses her arms to tuck her hands into her jacket pockets and walks towards Jessica's door. Jessica watches her back as the woman reaches out to open the door; but she pauses and looks over her shoulder.

"You never know," the woman purrs, a smirk pulling at her lips again. "In a few months, I might change my mind. Don't underestimate the effect a friend can have on a person." The look in her eyes is too knowing for Jessica's liking, but she turns back to the hallway and leaves, closing the door behind her.

And Jessica has a horrible feeling the spy is talking about Stark.

* * *

Thomas King is an aggressively-normal, _boring_ person in everything that he does and everything that he is - except for the fact that he came to Jessica and asked her to find dirt on Tony Stark. She has followed him for five days and he hasn't done a single suspicious thing since he left her office. It doesn't make any sense and it's really starting to piss her off. She's even broken into his home - jumping from the alleyway to his third-floor window that he left open since no normal trespasser would have gotten to it - and there is nothing even remotely suspicious in his apartment. Sure, there are some weird things, but that just makes it more normal - if he was completely clean, _that_ would be suspicious.

She's sitting on the fire escape across from his apartment again, watching as he turns his TV off and heads to his bedroom. _All_ he has done is go to work, come home, watch TV, maybe phone a friend or family member, and go to bed. He doesn't look like someone who knows they're being watched, and he doesn't seem like the kind of person who would have received extensive training on building that facade. Jessica cannot, for the life of her, figure out why on Earth the guy would want dirt on Stark.

So, yeah, she's feeling pretty pissed off.

She takes a swig of whiskey from her flask and reaches her free hand into her pocket to retrieve her phone. Opening her text conversations reminds her of the seven unread texts from Trish, but she ignores them and opens up a message to Stark.

" _I'm not getting anywhere with Thomas King. He said he'd be back in a week to see what I had, which means he'll be at my office in two days. Has JARVIS found anything I can use?_ "

She lets her hand holding the phone go limp, falling into her lap, and takes another drink. She winces a little at the taste as it burns down her throat, lifting her gaze to glare into King's dark apartment. What could this completely normal guy _possibly_ want with dirt on Stark? He's not struggling to make ends meet, he doesn't seem to obsess over expensive, materialistic things he can't afford, and he's not in debt to any loan sharks. He also doesn't seem to react negatively whenever there's anything about the Avengers on the news. If it's not money and it's not hatred, what the hell is motivating him to dig up dirt?

Her phone buzzes in her hand and she lifts it, twisting it so the screen points up. Stark is trying to video call her.

"Damnit," she mutters, but she answers it anyway.

When the video loads, it's clear that Stark has propped his phone up against something on his desk. Unsurprisingly, he's in his lab, tinkering with something in his hands. He's wearing a tank top that is smudged and a little singed, his arc reactor glowing brilliantly through the material, and his bare arms are covered in oil and are flexing aggressively with whatever tinkering he's doing. He's wearing a pair of safety goggles on an equally-dirtied face and his hair is fluffier than she's ever seen it.

" _Who's Thomas King_?" he asks, his attention focused on his hands.

Jessica raises her gaze skywards for a moment to try and tame her irritation. "Your blackmailer, genius," she intones.

Stark tuts, drawing her attention back to the video. " _I thought I suggested ignoring that dumbass_?"

"Yeah, well, he's pissing me off, now," Jessica mutters, glancing over at King's apartment again. Still no movement.

" _Why_?"

"Because he has no reason to want to blackmail you," she answers, lifting her flask to her lips again.

" _Sorry, I'm still getting used to the fact that you care_ ," Stark says, his tone serious, but his words ludicrous.

"It just doesn't make any sense," she bites out. "That's why it pisses me off."

" _You look cold, Jones_."

Jessica rolls her eyes. "This keeps me warm," she says, lifting the flask into the camera's view. "Has JARVIS found anything interesting on this guy?"

" _No, because he's the least-interesting person on the planet_ ," Stark retorts quickly, as if cutting in before his AI can answer. " _You should wear a hat; we're getting into the colder months, now, Jones_."

"He's made a few calls in the evenings - it'd be good to know who was on the other side," she says, ignoring the rest of his reply.

Stark's hands finally thump against the table when he lets out a dramatic groan and throws his head back. Jessica watches his neck stretch, his lips parting, stubble spread across the skin of his jaw, and tries not to smirk at his behaviour. He lifts the hand holding whatever tool he's using to reach up to his safety goggles and pull them down over his face, letting them hang around his neck. He leans forward in his seat again, bringing his chin down, and looks at his phone properly for the first time since he started the call.

" _I don't like it when people don't do what I tell them to_ ," he says.

Jessica's forehead scrunches judgmentally, shooing away the overly-paranoid fright her mind gets. "Okay, brat."

He purses his lips, cocking his head at her, and narrows his eyes. " _You're just gonna keep chasing this, aren't you_?"

"It's pissing me off that I haven't figured him out yet," she admits, glaring over at King's apartment.

Stark lets out a frustrated grunt. " _Fine. Y'know, you could get it done quicker if you c'mere and use my resources,_ " he muses distractedly, turning back to his tinkering. " _It'd get you outta the cold, too_."

"What's with you and my temperature?" she scowls confusedly.

" _I'm just trying to reciprocate the obvious care you hold for me. Fake it 'til you make it, you know_ ," he says, and he sends her a quick, cheeky grin before he swipes at the screen and the call ends.

Jessica feels indignation and irritation flare in her chest. She grits her teeth, whispers crawling up her neck and reaching for her ears, and takes another drink of whiskey. Nobody has ever got on her nerves the way that Stark does.

And, yet, she finds herself stomping along the hallway to the door of his lab not forty minutes later. "Does JARVIS have a phone number?" she asks when she pushes into the room.

"Are you breaking up with me?" Stark tosses over his shoulder. He's sat at a desk still, looking through a magnifying glass as he works on something in his hands, but he has changed out of his tank top into a black jumper.

Jessica glances at his now-covered arms as she walks further into the lab, heading over to the desk she's used before. "Did you freshen up for me?"

"Only at J's insistence."

" _I thought it might be appreciated if Mr Stark did not smell of oil and burnt cotton_ ," JARVIS explains.

"At least _I'm_ smellable," Stark retorts defensively. "What've _you_ got going for you?"

Jessica smirks and sits down at the desk, dropping her satchel on the floor before she shrugs out of her leather jacket. "Why's it so hot in here?" she frowns.

" _Mr Stark asked that-_ "

"Mr Stark can speak for himself," Stark interrupts loudly, his tone sharp but not completely serious. "Can you get back to running those simulations for me, please?"

" _Of course, sir_."

"And I _guess_ you can help Jones with this guy, too," the billionaire adds, though grudgingly.

" _How can I be of assistance, Miss Jones_?"

Jessica falters, staring a few desks ahead on her right at the side of Stark's face. He hasn't looked at her at all, focusing instead on whatever miniscule piece of tech he's working on. Though she hasn't been in his lab many times, she knows for a fact it has never been this warm, and noticing that and his interruption of JARVIS reminds her of his comments on her temperature in the video call. She can't say for certain whether he kicked up the heating just because she was coming in, but she's not sure how she feels about the idea of it.

So she decides to brush it off, too.

"Can you find out who King's been calling in the evenings?" she asks JARVIS, leaning down to her satchel to retrieve her flask. She takes a drink of whiskey while she waits for an answer, unable to stop a glance over at Stark's back.

" _Thomas King made three calls in the last five days: one to his mother; one to his sister; and another to a childhood friend_."

"God damnit," Jessica mutters, slumping over the desk to lean her elbows on the surface. She props a fist against her cheek and lifts the flask to her lips again with her other hand.

"Maybe he's bored," Stark comments. "People do crazy stuff when they're bored."

Jessica glances at a screen a few desks ahead of her, looking at the ten different suit designs on display. "What, like creating an army of suits?" she intones pointedly. She sees Stark pause for a moment, a muscle in his neck jumping, his jaw clenching, and she grits her teeth at the guilt that stabs at her. "I don't think this guy's smart enough to resort to blackmailing when he's bored. He doesn't seem that sociopathic."

"Maybe it has nothing to do with me," he shrugs, though his back is still lined with tension.

Jessica frowns over at him. "What d'you mean?"

Stark tilts his head, his hands slowly stilling, and his back relaxes. Then he finally twirls his chair around to look at her properly. His face is cleaner now than it had looked in the video call, and it's currently sitting in an expression of curiosity. "The only other motive he might have for coming to you with this, is interacting with _you_. Maybe the blackmailing is just an excuse to talk to you."

Jessica gives him a flat look.

"I'm serious!" he insists, holding his hands up defensively. "Maybe you pissed him off, maybe he saw you on the news and fell head-over-heels, maybe-"

"Okay, the pissing-off theory is valid," she interrupts, waving her flask dismissively at the other theory. "But I usually familiarise myself with the people connected to my clients or their targets."

"Maybe he wasn't connected to them at the time," Stark shrugs, twisting his chair back and forth.

Jessica drops her fist from her cheek and sits up in her chair, leaning against the backrest. "If it's about me, why involve you at all?" she challenges, deciding to humour the theory a little longer. It _could_ possibly explain the fact that she hasn't seen King behave in the weird way he did with her with anyone else.

Stark pouts thoughtfully, his gaze slipping to a point behind her as he flushes out his theory. "If he knows that you have a connection here-"

"He does."

"-then he knows it would be possible for you to uncover some secrets. But you'd have to be careful snooping around _me_ , and any secrets I'd have would be very well hidden." He twists his body to put the piece of tech and his tool back onto the desk so that he can stand up from his chair. His eyes seem bright with the thrill of figuring King's motives out and Jessica almost rolls her eyes at him, considering the fact that he couldn't be less interested when it was about him. "He'd know that this'd be a long-term job," he continues, slipping one hand into his pocket while the other gestures vaguely. "I mean, I know I've got an ego, but I'm sure nobody thinks you'd be able to walk in here one day and leave with a load of company secrets."

"Yeah, I think most people know that you wouldn't be an easy man to steal secrets from, Stark," she mutters. "Especially now you're part of the Avengers."

"So, maybe he figured he'd give you a case that he knew you'd have to spend a while on," he theorises. "Something that he thought would keep you away from him personally in case you figured out the exact thing you have: that the guy's painfully-boring and really has no reason to contact you."

Jessica pushes her chair back so she has room to kick her feet up onto the desk. Her hand lifts her flask to her lips again and she swallows a mouthful of whiskey, the skin at the corner of her eye twitching at the burn. She's starting to dislike this theory.

"I've not seen him show any interest in me," she says.

"Maybe he's hiding it just in case you're watching him."

"I've seen him arguing with himself in the mirror," she retorts. "He's not worried about being spied on."

" _I can't find a connection between Thomas King, or anyone in his family, and Miss Jones_ ," JARVIS informs them.

"Back to square one, then," Jessica says, taking another drink.

"Uh, _no_ ," Stark retorts pointedly, turning to give her an offended look. "When J didn't find a connection between this guy and _me_ , you still spent five days trying to find something - you can't just brush off _my_ theory for the same reason."

Jessica rolls her eyes. "Of the two of us, who's more likely to be able to give this guy what he wants?"

Stark lifts his eyebrows, giving her a look. "Well, if he's _interested_ in you, I don't think I can satisfy that particular-"

"Shut up, Stark," she snaps irritably, fighting against the amusement twitching her lips.

He grins at her, sending her an exaggerated wink. "At least we know he's got good taste."

"Either way," she says, allowing a small smirk.

Stark's eyes widen comically, his lips parting to form a shocked - but thrilled - expression. "Did you just flirt _back_ at me?" he demands, lifting his hand to press his fingertips to his chest.

"I imagine you're not used to that, huh?" she responds, tilting her head at him with feigned sympathy.

His mouth snaps shut, eyes narrowing. "I think we all know I do _very_ well with the ladies."

Jessica smirks, but she falters when she remembers him talking about nobody having standards low enough for him, and the sadness in his eyes. By the way his face almost imperceptibly falls, she knows that he's remembered, too.

Something in her decides to distract him. "King's gonna be at my office in two days," she sighs, slipping her feet off the desk and sitting up straight. "What am I gonna tell him when he asks what I've got?"

Stark seems a little deflated now, but he doesn't fully turn his back to her at least. He just moves to look further up the lab, giving her his side profile. "Uh, I dunno," he mutters. But then he looks over his shoulder at her. "You could tell him you've found some evidence of embezzlement, but you need more time to figure out who's doing it. If the reporters jump on the story, we'll know who his true target is."

Jessica nods approvingly. "Alright, sounds good," she says.

Feeling that the interaction is coming to an end, she screws the lid back on her flask and drops it into her satchel. She sees Stark turn away from her properly and take a few steps back to his desk. But when she reaches for her jacket, he speaks up again.

"Y'know, I really wanna watch _Empire_ now, but I'd feel rude watching it without you."

Jessica pauses and looks up to stare at his back. His tone was nonchalant and easy, but she sees the slump in his shoulders. "I didn't know I signed up for a marathon."

Stark scoffs quietly, continuing his playful facade. "As if you can just start a franchise and ignore the rest."

Jessica licks her lips, taking a deep breath. She thinks of her cold, dark apartment, and the fire escape opposite Thomas King's building, and she begrudgingly realises she wouldn't mind staying a little longer. "Fine, whatever."

Stark looks round at her again, a smirk pulling at his lips despite the sombre look in his eyes. "You don't need to sound so thrilled about it," he jokes weakly.

"You don't need to guilt-trip me into spending time here," she counters.

They share a look, and they both know that the other's facade will likely not disappear just because they've acknowledged them. Jessica lifts a hand to scratch at her neck, trying not to let the effects of the whispers show on her face. She and Stark are just learning to understand each other - she doesn't need to worry about getting close to him. They've both got too much shit going on that they clearly don't want to drag anyone else into, so they're safe from dragging each other in.

She can't let him in. She won't.


	11. Overactive Paranoia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas King visits Jessica again.
> 
> Jessica and Tony are both a little angsty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy the chapter. I haven't really had much feedback for a while, but I'm hoping someone is still enjoying the story out there! Please feel free to leave any kind of comment.

"I don't know what you want me to say," Jessica mutters, her phone wedged between her jaw and her shoulder. Her hands are busy pulling a fresh pair of jeans up over her legs.

" _How about, 'Let's go for lunch'?_ " Trish's voice responds, and Jessica can just picture her hand gesturing irritably.

"That doesn't sound like something I'd say," Jessica grimaces. She buttons the jeans over her stomach and goes to her wardrobe to pick out a thick jumper - her apartment isn't very good at retaining heat, apparently, and the cold seems to be seeping into the building through her shitty windows.

" _Jess_ ," Trish says, the word drowning in frustration.

Jessica sighs sharply. "Look, I'm sorry, okay? I haven't had time lately to organise a damn tea party."

" _I get that, Jess. But what's your excuse for avoiding me for the months_ before _the attack?_ "

Jessica takes the phone away from her ear for a moment to pull her jumper over her head and thread her arms into the sleeves, and she briefly considers tossing the phone out the window. But she lifts it back to her ear as she trudges into the kitchen.

" _WellI?_ " Trish persists.

Jessica grunts. "Sorry, I was hoping you'd have hung up." She moves to the sink, investigating the mug she hasn't washed and deciding a quick blast under the tap will do a good enough job. She needs coffee.

" _You should know by now that you're not gonna get rid of me that easily_."

"Lucky me," Jessica intones, fingers busy with the coffee machine.

" _Damn right, lucky you,_ " Trish retorts pointedly. " _You got anyone_ else _in your life looking out for you_?"

" _Nobody would notice if you disappeared, Jessica_ ," the whispers recite.

Jessica's fingers stiffen and clench around the handle of her mug, and it snaps clean off. The body of the mug falls to her counter with a deafening clatter, the coffee inside sloshing out into a muddy puddle.

"Damnit!" she hisses, panic and rage swirling and swelling inside her chest. She turns abruptly and tosses the broken handle out through the kitchen door, watching it hit the wall outside and shatter into pieces.

" _Jess? What's wrong?_ " Trish asks, a hint of panic in her cautious tone.

"Nothing," Jessica bites out, grimacing as the memory of his long fingers brushing her hair off her neck tickles her skin.

" _Don't bullshit me_ ," Trish snaps.

"It's _my_ shit, Trish, back off!" Jessica snaps back. She storms from the mess of her kitchen into her living room, gaze zeroing in on the whiskey shelf. "I don't need you to hold my hand every second of every goddamn day."

" _I_ know _that, asshole - all I wanna do is have a normal conversation with you every once in a while!_ "

"Yeah, well, all you're gonna get is a shitload of disappointment," Jessica says, her face curled with anger.

" _Yeah, I guess so_ ," Trish retorts. " _Call me when you're ready to stop pushing me away, Jess_."

And when Trish hangs up, Jessica blinks with surprise and something that might be regret.

She throws her phone to her desk and reaches with shaking hands for a glass and a bottle, bringing them to her desk, too. The feet of her chair scrape against her floor when she slumps into it, rolling her shoulders and twitching her head back and forth to try and shake off the memories ghosting across her skin. Sometimes she has days like this, where the whispers grow stronger and turn into actual words that sound like _him_ , rather than settling as just a bad feeling. In these days, she struggles to shove everything down where she can't think about it, and the memories resurface and replay to torture her.

Jessica bypasses the whiskey glass and brings the bottle to her lips instead, letting a mouthful of the alcohol burn over her tongue and down her throat.

" _Nobody's looking for you, Jessica. You don't want to go back to that life. You want to stay with me_."

She squeezes her eyes shut against the memory, against the phantom breath on her ear, against the sound of her own voice telling him she wanted to stay. Her fingers shake when she stretches them out, and her nails bite into her palm when she clenches them into a fist. She can feel her breath slipping falteringly between her lips, can feel the world tilting around her as her ribs tighten around her lungs-

" _Come back here!_ "

She had walked away from him.

"Main Street. Birch Street-" she mutters stiffly.

" _Jessica?_ "

She had ignored him.

"Higgins Drive-"

" _Now, Jessica!_ " The words are almost too quiet and muffled to hear; but she has replayed them enough times to know them by heart, to know each and every tiny inflection and syllable by heart.

"Cobalt Lane," she says, and her voice sounds firmer to her ears.

She takes a steady breath and opens her eyes, the world once again sitting evenly around her. She unclenches her fist and stretches her fingers out, grimly satisfied when she sees they don't shake. The glass of her bottle presses coldly against her lips as she takes another long drink.

"Damnit," she breathes, and she sags forwards to lean her elbows on her desk, running a hand down her face.

It was horrific enough, not having control of her mind and body while he was alive - it's just fucking depressing that she continues to experience such a lack of control now that he's dead. She _loathes_ that he still has this hold of her, this posthumous corruption of her entire being, no matter how many times she reminds herself that he can't get to her anymore because _he's dead_.

He _died_. That should have been the closure she needed to move on and put it behind her; but he plagues her every _goddamn_ day as if he's still alive and well and stood right behind her.

She hates that she needs to throw a glance over her shoulder to make sure he isn't.

It's not an ideal time for her to be having one of these difficult days, because today marks a week since Thomas King first walked into her office with the job to dig up dirt on Stark, which means he's due to come back today and check in on her progress - _if_ he was telling the truth when he said he'd come back. She's not sure what to expect, but she knows she'll need more alcohol if she's going to deal with him without exposing herself as the paranoid mess that she is.

Three-quarters of the bottle later, she's tipsy and her temperature is much more agreeable, but she can still feel the whispers ghosting across her skin, threatening to tear into her. She can count the number of times that alcohol has helped days like this on one hand, she really shouldn't be surprised - still, there's no harm in trying.

It's drawing closer to the time in the day that she found Thomas King waiting at her door and she'd really hoped that the alcohol would have dulled down her anticipation, but she can't stop glancing up at the window in her door, her tongue running over her teeth and lips distractedly. She has her texts with Stark open on her phone, glancing down at the screen and wondering whether she should say something or call him and have him on the phone while Thomas King is in with her. Would Stark find that weird? Would it clue him in to how paranoid and unstable she is?

It's not worth the risk. She locks the phone and slides it across the desk away from her.

She's taking another swig of her drink - smaller, this time - when someone knocks on the door. She nearly chokes on the alcohol but manages to swallow it down with a wince, hurrying to screw the lid back on the bottle and shove it in a drawer in her desk. She'd taken a piece of gum out to have ready for when King came so he wouldn't be able to smell the drink on her breath, and she snatches it up and tosses it into her mouth as she pushes to her feet.

Her steps are a little unsteady, but she gives herself a shake and rolls her shoulders back as she walks to the door. She plasters an attempt at a professional smile on her face when she opens the door and looks up at him.

"Welcome back, Mr-" Jessica cuts herself off, suddenly remembering that she only knows his name because she got JARVIS to identify him, not because he willingly gave her the information. "I'm coming up blank," she lies easily. "What d'you want me to call you?"

"Nothing," he answers stiffly.

Jessica bites her teeth together to stop herself from making a snarky comment. She pushes the door open further and turns to walk back to her desk, pouring her concentration into not looking like she's consumed as much alcohol as she has.

"Did you take the job I offered?" he asks, the click of the door sounding as he closes it behind him.

Jessica throws him a look as she skirts her desk and sits back down behind it. "I would've told you last week if I wasn't gonna take it," she says.

"So, you have been investigating Tony Stark?"

She stares up at him and works her jaw. "As much as a world-famous, billionaire, superhero can be investigated, yeah."

"What have you found?" he asks stiffly.

Jessica shrugs and tilts forward to lean her arms on her desk. "Whispers of embezzlement," she answers. "I need to look around a little more to find the evidence, but my gut tells me it's Stark."

The news doesn't seem to please King, but it doesn't seem to _dis_ please him either. Jessica watches him carefully, her suspicion only building at his lack of reaction. "You'll need to continue investigating?" he checks.

"Yeah, if you want solid evidence for the whole _blackmail_ thing," she retorts. She didn't mean to sound so snarky.

He blinks at her. "I don't want to blackmail him."

Jessica stares up at him, running her tongue over her lip before pulling it into her mouth with her teeth. It infuriates her that she can't figure out this guy's deal. None of this is sitting right with her at all.

"Do I need to be worried about what you plan to do with this information?" she asks, her eyebrows scrunching with irritated confusion. "If you do something shady and Stark figures out _I'm_ the one who got you the evidence, I think he'd find it pretty damn easy to make me disappear - y'know, in a _murdery_ sort of way."

Something flashes in his eyes, his face twitching, but it's too quick and small for her to figure out what it means - but she has to suppress an uneasy shiver that crawls down her spine.

"Stark isn't going to hurt you," he says, and he almost sounds careful about his words.

Jessica's toes curl in her boots. Maybe it's just because today is a bad day and her paranoia is simply being overactive, but she can't help but wonder if there is an emphasis on _Stark_ \- as in, _he_ won't hurt her, but maybe someone else will.

"I'll come back in a week's time," King tells her. He reaches into his back pocket and Jessica's entire body tenses with anticipation, but when his hand comes back into view he reaches it over towards her desk with a brown packet in his grip. "You'll get the rest when the job is done," he says.

Jessica tries not to appear hesitant as she pushes to her feet and extends her own hand to take the packet from him. Her forehead scrunches downwards when she opens it up and finds about three-week's worth of pay in cash, neatly stacked. He _had_ said she'd be paid generously, but she wasn't exactly expecting _this_.

She lifts her gaze back to him when he turns from her and starts to walk for the door. He doesn't even throw a glance back at her. He just opens the door, walks out, and shuts it behind him again.

Jessica drops the packet of cash on her desk with a scowl and presses her palms into the wood to lean on it. Her hair slips from behind her ear to fall into a black curtain around her face, but the obstruction in her vision only puts her more on edge.

 _Yes_ , Thomas King is laughably suspicious and vague and difficult to get a read of, but that doesn't mean she needs to be feeling _this_ fucking uneasy about it. He's just a weird guy looking for dirt on another guy - she's had countless clients who've asked the exact same thing of her.

Except _this_ weird guy wants dirt on Tony fucking Stark - _Iron Man,_ for shit's sake - and he's giving off vibes that make her think back to a certain time in her life that has successfully traumatised her.

She exhales sharply and shoves her hair back behind her ear. The force of her glare threatens to burn the brown packet on her desk, but she snatches it up and storms to her living room to find her satchel before the packet can spontaneously combust.

* * *

Tony is sat in filthy clothes on a plastic-wrapped sofa on one of the floors undergoing renovation, his eyes unfocused and tired as they stare blindly out the wall of windows before him. At a certain point, one has to give up the fruitless search for an activity with which to pass the time and instead come to terms with the fact that _no_ activity will pass the time the way one wants it to. There isn't even anything he's _waiting_ for to justify wanting to pass the time - he just wants it to pass.

Although, maybe he's waiting for the next villain to show up so that he can put everything he has into stopping them, so he can feel like he's making a difference, like he's redeeming himself, like he's _useful_. Or maybe he's waiting for the nightmares to stop, for a healthy sleeping pattern, for someone to look at him and _see him_ , but in a way that doesn't make him feel like a liability.

Designing new suits is a good way to pass the time. He should know - he hasn't really stopped since the attack. No matter what he does, there's always some sort of prototype building itself in the back of his head, waiting to be made into something solid and real - more solid and real than he feels. But, after weeks of designing and theorising without really taking a break, he has finally listened to the disembodied voice of his only companion and taken a step back. Just for a couple of hours. Just because he thought he'd stumbled across an ingenious new range of designs, only to be informed that he'd already thought of _and_ dismissed each one of them within the first week.

" _Sir, it appears as though Miss Jones is on her way to the Tower_."

Tony blinks. The world slowly comes back into focus around him and he takes a deep breath, puckering his lips thoughtfully. He can sense the change in himself - the adoption of false joviality - even though the only person who can see him is JARVIS, and he's seen Tony in much worse states than this, anyway.

A tiny part of him sometimes entertains the hypothetical notion of opening up to Jessica, because he can see the tension in her shoulders and the twitch in her movements and he recognises that state of being in himself; but he _appreciates_ the lack of heart-to-hearts in their friendship - are they even friends? - and knows for definite that Jessica isn't someone to talk freely about her emotions, anyway. His other friends, Potts and Rhodey and Banner and, hell, even Rogers, all give him _that look_ and ask how he is and inevitably become irritated by his unwillingness to cooperate and end up just making him feel even less inclined to talk to them; but Jessica has as much of an aversion as he does, and yet he thinks there's been a couple of instances where she's tried to help in her own way, and that has _meant_ something to him.

" _Miss Jones is entering the lobby, sir. If I remember correctly, Thomas King was to have visited her today._ "

Tony's mouth twitches at the mention of her strange client, still unsure of what to think of him. "Who?" he chirps. He pushes off the covered sofa and slips his phone out of his pocket. "Bring up the feed, would you, J?"

" _Certainly._ "

Tony's phone lights up with a live feed from the camera in the lobby, and he smirks at how easy-to-spot Jessica is amongst all the suited businessmen and women in her leather jacket and ripped jeans. There's something almost reassuring about it.

"I think the elevator she's picked is a little sticky, don't you?" he comments innocently, pushing through a door into the stairwell.

" _As you say, sir_ ," comes JARVIS' measured reply.

Tony rolls his eyes, descending the concrete steps quietly. He's just having some fun.

After a moment of watching Jessica wait for the elevator, Tony realises she isn't even paying attention to the display of which floor it's on. She's just standing there, glaring at the doors, her head tilted slightly towards her right shoulder.

"What's goin' on?" he mutters, pouting.

" _There appears to be a man making a scene at the front desk_ ," JARVIS answers.

The feed switches to a view of the desk, showing Tony a man dressed in a casual shirt and trousers, a suit jacket and glasses, with an expensive camera dangling by a strap over his shoulder.

Tony huffs out an irritated sigh. "Let's hear what he's bitching about."

"- _weeks! I came for an interview, you told me to make an appointment, so I made a goddamn appointment, and now you're telling me he's_ busy _?_ "

Tony swipes the screen and the feed switches back to Jessica. She's running her tongue over her lip, her jaw jutted out at an angle that implies nothing but pure irritation. Tony quirks an eyebrow at that - either she's annoyed on Tony's behalf by this guy, or she's just feeling particularly short-fused today. He figures it's most likely the latter.

" _I don't give a shit! I've made an appointment -_ multiple _appointments, actually, and he's never_ once _respected them! I don't care if he thinks he's some bigshot hero, he obviously lacks any semblance of common courtesy!_ "

Jessica closes her mouth again and her eyes fall shut, her full lips pressing into a tight, flat line. Tony pauses on the stairs, eyes twitching into a narrow.

" _I'm sorry I don't worship the ground the prick walks on like everyone else - I can actually see him for the arrogant, selfish, self-absorbed fucker-_ "

" _Jesus christ, would you give it a goddamn rest?_ " Jessica finally snaps, turning a face of uninhibited annoyance and judgement on the man.

Tony starts moving again, his steps a little quicker than before. He has a certain floor in mind and it's another few down.

" _No, I won't give it a goddamn rest_!" the man shouts back indignantly. " _And who the hell are you, anyway?_ "

" _Hey, man, maybe you should calm down and think about where you are,_ " a bystander says warily.

" _No, I wanna know who this bitch is that she thinks she can talk to me like that!_ "

" _I'm the bitch whose foot'll be up your ass if you don't calm the hell down_ ," Jessica retorts, but she doesn't look at him. She's still just glaring at the elevator doors.

" _She fought with the Avengers, dude_ ," someone else warns.

" _You're that Jessica Jones woman?_ " the man realises. " _Wait, so you're on your way to see the prick right now, aren't you?_ "

Jessica ignores him.

Tony pushes through a door leading out of the stairwell and onto the floor he needs.

" _Well, I'll just go with you, then. You can take me up to see him, and I'll give him a piece of my mind._ "

" _I'm not doing shit for you, asshole_ ," she throws over her shoulder.

Tony slips his phone into his pocket and steps into his suit, JARVIS fitting it all around his body automatically. When his helmet slips into place and his display flickers to life, JARVIS continues the feed in the corner.

" _You're gonna take me up to him right now, Jones!_ "

The man is marching towards her.

Jessica's shoulders stiffen.

" _No._ "

" _I wanna see him_ right now _! Now, Jessica!_ "

Tony is already out in the open air and flying down to the lobby when he sees the terror flash across Jessica's face, and he puts more energy into the thrusters. Jessica turns and lunges for the man, grabbing a hold of his clothing with white-knuckled hands before she tosses him away from her. He hits a structural pole with a loud thud and falls to the ground, and Jessica surges towards him with pure fury in her eyes, her fists clenching at her sides.

Tony bursts through a window and throws up a palm before his feet touch the ground. "Lightly, J - we don't know her tolerance," he commands tensely, and his thruster fires at Jessica, blasting her away from the man. She hurtles through the air, hitting the wall next to the elevator with a grunt.

"Bring it down," Tony says.

" _At once, sir."_

He hears the ping of the elevator as he turns his head to the man Jessica attacked, making sure to keep her in his peripherals as she crawls onto her hands and knees, glaring at him.

"I think it'd be a good idea for you to get the hell outta my building," he tells the man, his voice low and clipped. He'd meant to sound more falsely-upbeat than angry, but he's running on two hours of sleep and four coffees - and the terror on Jessica's face is burned into his memory.

The man's face is contorted with fear, pain, and anger. "But you- But _she_ -"

Tony lifts a palm in the man's face, thruster humming as it charges. "Now!" he barks.

The man glares between them and finally scrambles out of the lobby. Tony stalks towards Jessica, ignoring the stares of the crowd in the reception. She is on her feet now, a hand braced against the wall, her chest heaving. He can't help the frown pulling on his mouth when he sees the shake in her limp hand, the sudden panic in her gaze as it flicks around the room, searching. He stops in front of her as JARVIS brings up an estimated heart rate on the woman, noticing her ragged, insubstantial breaths, and takes a moment to pick his words.

"You wanna come upstairs?" he asks, his voice steady despite the sudden churning of his stomach as he waits for her reaction.

Jessica is stubbornly avoiding his gaze, until he speaks, and then her eyes flick to him and _stare_. He thinks she must have noticed the wording, known that he could have barked out an instruction at her, too, for attacking a visitor in his lobby. Her jaw clenches, eyes suddenly unreadable, and she pushes off the wall to walk into the elevator.

Tony doesn't realise how tense his body had become until it deflates with relief. While his gaze is still pinned to Jessica's face, he waves a dismissive hand at the audience gathered in the lobby. "Sorry you had to see that, folks. Have a fantastic day."

He steps into the elevator beside Jessica and tries not to take it personally when she moves closer to the wall, away from him. The doors slide shut and the small box shoogles ever so slightly as it begins the ascent. Jessica's fingers shake when she reaches for the flap of her satchel, digging around until she finds her flask.

"Uh, JARVIS, tell Potts to give that receptionist a raise," he says, trying to pretend to ignore the two large gulps Jessica downs of whatever alcohol's in the flask. "And thank the two knights in shining armour for trying to reason with that doofus."

" _Of course, sir._ "

"Thanks, bud."

The elevator pings when they reach one of the recreational floors, and Tony tries to gauge whether he should leave first or if Jessica would rather escape the small space immediately. But she is glaring into nothing, her forehead crumpled with distress.

"Jones?" he asks quietly, moving to place a hand on her shoulder before thinking better of it. He'd seen the way she reacts to touch once before, the first day they met, and it was enough to put him off touching her ever again - something about seeing that kind of panicked, enraged fear in her eyes really hadn't sat well with him.

Jessica blinks, her eyes becoming more focused, and she gives him a stiff nod. He takes it as an indication that he should leave the elevator first, so he does, listening to her steps as she follows behind him. He moves off to the side and has his suit open up again, stepping out in his sweatpants and Henley shirt.

This floor, nearer the top and therefore smaller than the lower ones, is one big, open space. There are sections divided by partition walls and artificial plants, but it's otherwise completely open-plan, full of tables and sofas and armchairs. There's a bar - of course - along one wall, and a kitchen area on the opposite end. Since the refurbishment is still ongoing, the room is still a bit messy and nowhere near done being decorated, but some of the sofas and chairs are no longer wrapped in plastic sheeting. Tony doesn't really know if this is the right place to take Jessica, but he can imagine where it would be _wrong_ to take her, and this isn't it, so it'll have to do.

He clicks his fingers uncomfortably when he turns round to find the woman again, and blinks when she appears in front of him, her eyes distracted, her expression rigid with tension, and accepts the brown packet she's thrust towards his chest.

* * *

"What's this?" Stark asks, taking the brown packet from her hands. When he opens it and realises the contents, his eyebrows shoot towards his hairline. "You trying to solicit my services, Jones?"

Jessica's facial muscles breathe a sigh of relief when she loosens them to give him a flat glare. "I'm sure you'd be worth more than that, Stark," she retorts, her words slightly stilted with her lingering panic.

She doesn't feel like bantering with him, but she's thinking of the way he just _asked_ if she wanted to go upstairs, instead of dragging her with him after attacking a civilian in his building, and she's pretty sure it was a conscious decision on his part. He adapted to the situation and avoided triggering her - the least she can do is adapt to his fallback on humour to cope with the tension in the air. And if anyone was to say that responding in kind actually eased the tension she felt, she'd deny it violently.

Stark gives her a look. "Thank you?"

Jessica lifts her flask to her mouth again. Her fingers are still shaking and she still feels like there's a presence looming over her shoulder, whispering insults and commands, but she can't say her mantra without cluing Stark in to just how fucked she is. She doesn't want him to know, and he doesn't need to have it hanging over him. She's a big girl who can deal with her own issues, and he certainly doesn't need any more on his plate.

"King came by earlier," she explains after swallowing the mouthful of whiskey. "I fed him the bullshit you suggested, he said he'd be back next week, and he gave me that."

"I didn't realise your rates were so high for a week's worth of work without any solid evidence," he quips, handing the packet back to her.

"This is what I'd charge for three weeks and a solved case," she retorts, lifting the flask again.

She sees Stark glance at the flask, sees the twitch under his eye, and wonders if he's going to pull a Trish and scold her for relying on alcohol to calm her nerves.

Instead, he says, "Have I told you that I think there's something fishy about this guy?"

Jessica gives him a flat smile. "I remember you acting like I was an idiot for thinking anything of it."

"Well, that was back when you thought _I_ was the intended victim, here," he counters, turning to walk to the kitchen area.

"I still think that, dumbass." She should really find a bathroom to recite her mantra in.

"Oh, yeah? Did he give you a reason to justify this suspicion?" he challenges.

Jessica's face scrunches. "Other than the fact that he's paid me a lot of money to dig up dirt on you, without giving me any personal information or indication of what he intends to do with the information?"

"You want a sandwich? PB and J? J? PB?" he rattles off, disinterested, as he looks inside the cupboards.

"No," she grunts, rolling her eyes. "Don't change the subject."

He pulls out a loaf of bread, eyeing it like it's some piece of alien technology that he's both disturbed and intrigued by. " _I_ still think he's after you," he says.

Jessica's boots scuff the floor when she walks to a nearby table, putting her flask down on the surface so that she can look again at the money King gave her. "Maybe I should try tracing these," she mutters. She pulls a couple notes out, gritting her teeth at their pathetic wavering in the air from the shake in her fingers.

"He's probably been saving them up in a little box at the center of the shrine he's built you."

His utter deniance of this being a threat to him and his reputation - which is what it _is_ \- infuriates Jessica. She can't figure out why he's only interested in discussing it when he's imagining her as the victim, rather than himself.

"I thought you were supposed to have crippling narcissism," she says, brows furrowed and eyes narrowed, her mouth twisting with confusion.

"I thought you were supposed to not give a damn," he retorts swiftly, and when he turns his gaze on her, she spots the tension around his eyes.

She stares back at him for a moment, her face relaxing until only her eyebrows remain pinched, and tries to steady her breathing. She probably shouldn't have bit out at him like that, calling out the fact that he isn't as self-absorbed as he's led the world to believe. She should reign in her instinct to snap back at him when he called her out in kind.

He presses his lips together, lifting his eyebrows briefly as he gives her a weak shrug and a shake of his head. His eyes slowly soften again, the warm brown trapping her in a silent stare. All she can do is breathe. He's got that stubble spreading across his cheeks, lining his jaw, and his hair still hasn't been trimmed. Some of it slips when he shakes his head, and her eyes manage to break away from his to follow the curled lines of his hair as it falls over his ear. She can see the long-sleeved Henley shirt curving around his arms and torso, his sweatpants loose on his legs until they slim down at the ankle, and he isn't wearing any shoes.

She moves her gaze back to his, glancing briefly at the mouth that slowly relaxes into a deflated line, and sees the dark bags under his eyes, the unhealthy pallor of his skin. His eyes flick around her face, too, and she knows that he's investigating her appearance as much as she is his. They bite at each other, make offhand jabs that cut too close to the truth, and avoid putting it all aside to actually _talk_ about their issues. But she thinks they might not need to.

There's a lot that goes unsaid between them, a lot that's hinted at but not elaborated on, a lot that's read between the lines. They have, she realises, a certain understanding of each other - one that makes heart-to-hearts redundant. Because she can _see_ the signs of PTSD, she can see the insomnia, the sleep deprivation, the unhealthy diet, the tension, the fear, the guilt, and because she sees it she doesn't need to ask him how he is, or what's wrong. She knows he's not okay, just as well as he probably knows the same about her. She doesn't know the extent of his understanding of her issues, but she at least knows that he realised inviting her up instead of _telling_ her to go was the better idea, and she knows that he had went to touch her, but stopped himself, probably because the last time he'd done so she had been unable to stop the flash of panic that surged through her.

Jessica drops her gaze to the table at her side, running her tongue over her lip absent-mindedly as her brow furrows again. The knowledge that Stark is able to read her - even if she's not completely transparent - sits _uneasily_ in her chest. She doesn't want anyone to see how deeply-rooted her trauma is in her mind, her soul. She doesn't want anyone to look at her like she's a victim, like she's to be pitied, like she's _weak_. If people know you, they can manipulate you, and she'd sooner walk into the jaws of one of those goddamn space crocodiles than let someone manipulate her ever again.

Stark brings her back to the moment when he slides a plate onto the table in front of her, presenting a sandwich cut into triangles. She blinks down at it, suddenly completely opposed to ever making eye contact with him again. She doesn't want to see him _seeing_ her. Not when her fingers are still shaking and she desperately needs to say her mantra.

"Can I tempt you with a glass for that drink and an afternoon in a room without windows watching _Return of the Jedi_?" he offers, his voice quiet and nonchalant, his body close at her shoulder, but far enough away to let her breathe.

Jessica purses her lips, torn between accepting and relaxing for the afternoon, and telling him to fuck off.

"I should go," she mutters.

The air between them seems to deflate, and she hears him sigh out his nose. "What'd you come here for?" he asks quietly. "Just to show me that King gave you more money than you expected?"

Jessica clenches her teeth. She doesn't really have an answer for him. Not an honest one, anyway. Not one that is the whole truth. "I thought you might've been interested in an update," she says.

She waits for him to point out the obvious fact that she could have simply called - or, better yet, texted. She waits for him to voice his suspicion that there's more to it than that, because she knows he can see it.

"You got me there," he says.

It takes a moment for the words to sink in, for Jessica to realise that he isn't going to push her to admit anything she doesn't fully understand herself.

"Listen, Jones, all I'm saying is I'm gonna go stick a movie on and sit down to forget about the real world and the fact that Potts is gonna wanna kill me for dropping some employee's salary change on her, and you're more than welcome to partake. We can talk about King after."

Jessica takes a breath before she finally meets his gaze again. She doesn't want to see his understanding in his eyes, his awareness of her weakness, his sympathy - but she doesn't see it. Stark is looking back at her, his gaze borderline- _vulnerable_ , hints of guilt in the slight scrunch in his forehead, and Jessica realises he's not offering her company out of pity. He's asking her to stay for his own benefit.

She supposes this is where the two of them differ. While she wants to put up a front of independent stability, even if it materialises in brash, blunt, hurtful words, and avoid anyone seeing too much to instigate sympathy and care and _questions_ , Stark wants to put up a front with his nonchalant, self-absorbed attitude, and avoid anyone seeing how much he actually cares and how much sits upon his shoulders; but Stark also seems to need someone to _see_ it all under his facade, despite his attempts to cover it up. It's not that he wants sympathy or pity, she thinks, but more just because then someone can see the effort he puts in. She's not sure why he thinks it matters - maybe it's because then someone can make an opinion of who he really is, and he can take meaning from that.

But the fact is that Jessica Jones is recognising that Tony Stark _needs_ someone to see him like this, to understand what it is he's feeling, and why. She would hate for someone to know her like that - the proof is in the way she treats Trish, who is the person closest to understanding Jessica's trauma in the whole world.

And this is where Jessica finds herself infuriatingly conflicted. She knows that the more time she spends with Stark, especially in situations like this where he's seen her toeing a breakdown and has offered her something that _would_ probably be an effective distraction, the more Stark will learn about her and what she's been through and why she is the way that she is. She doesn't want anyone to get to know her like that. Once they know where her trauma lies, where her _fear_ lies, they'd be able to use it against her, and she just _can't_ risk that happening.

_But._

She is watching Stark and he is waiting for an answer, his body slowly sagging at her side, his eyes so gentle and warm and _asking_ and _needing_ , and she can't find it in herself to be disgusted by him. Because she knows what he's going through and understands that it could easily be _her_ hoping that some person she barely knows will spend just a little bit longer with her so that she can fool them and herself into thinking she's more stable than she really is. She could have spent her life searching for approval and validation in other people to make up for the fact that she-

She grits her teeth and glances away again, scowling when she hears Stark sigh quietly and lower his chin to his chest. There's a small intake of breath, and she is anticipating the hidden disappointment in the coming reassurance that she doesn't need to stay.

"Alright, one film and then we'll talk about King."

She blinks.

Stark lifts his head to stare at the side of her face, his mouth still hanging open around the beginning of his sentence. As fleeting a glance as it was, it was still a mistake to look up at him and witness the sudden weight to his gaze.

She clears her throat and reaches for her flask again. "You're buying the pizza," she mutters.

And Stark grins at her, though the edges of his mouth are curled downwards as if in an attempt to dull the effect. "After that fat packet?" he quips, lifting an eyebrow as he schools his features into something less _exposed_. "Rude, but alright."

She tosses the packet onto the table and removes her satchel and jacket. He moves to walk behind her as she leans down to pick up the plate and her flask again, and then turns to follow him out of the room.

And when they find themselves seated in his movie theatre, Jessica forgets that she had been so desperate to take a moment alone to repeat her mantra, and she lifts her whiskey glass to her lips with fingers that no longer shake.


	12. Unexpected Developments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jessica loses patience and confronts Thomas King.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm currently watching through season 1 of Jessica Jones and taking notes and stuff to figure out where I want to go with this (which is definitely something I should've done before I started posting chapters online, but hindsight is 20/20). I might have bitten off more than I can chew, but I'm gonna do my best to try and merge these two worlds coherently and in a way that still entertains. We'll see how it goes. But thanks for sticking with the story anyway! Enjoy the chapter x

Jessica stands in the darkness of her apartment, the light from her laptop screen too dim to illuminate the room, and stares down at her printer with unfocused eyes. Photographs are slipping out of the machine onto the desk it sits on, documenting yet another affair for yet another heartbroken client. The whiskey glass held loosely in her fingers has been refilled more times than she cares to count, but she thinks that when she finally drags herself to her bedroom, the alcohol will allow for a fairly instantaneous transition into unconsciousness - sometimes that's all she can hope for in a day.

For whatever reason, work has been drying up a little in the last couple of weeks. She's only had a couple of clients, both with easy enough needs to meet, but once she hands over these images and receives payment, she'll be officially client-less. Maybe it's because more people have seen who she associated herself with the day of the attack, or maybe it's because word has spread after she attacked the asshole in Stark's lobby - either way, it means she's going to have to go to Hogarth and actively seek out a case, and _asking_ that kind of thing of Hogarth always leaves a sour taste in her mouth. If Hogarth didn't benefit so much from Jessica's favours, she'd have most likely found a way to fuck Jessica over by now.

The printer churns out the last photograph and Jessica licks her lips, tasting the whiskey lingering on her skin. She gathers the photos and walks back to her desk, setting the empty glass down with a dull thud so that she can pick up a brown packet and slip the photos inside. The packet drops to the desk again, her hands reaching to run her fingers through her hair as she lets out a heavy sigh.

She has felt mildly on-edge since the day she lashed out at that guy in Stark's lobby, the whispers coming insistently and especially cruel no matter how many times she mutters her stupid mantra. The shadows press heavier around her mind and threaten to drag her into them and never let her go again, but she has an issue with admitting these kinds of things, hence the absence of light in the apartment despite the suffocating darkness she's entombed in. So maybe she's extra jumpy, maybe she's had to catch herself a couple of times before literally, _verbally_ responding to the whispered insults and threats, and maybe she's closed herself off more than usual so that she doesn't let anyone see the mess her mind is in, but at least- at least..

So maybe her life is just all angst and paranoia and self-loathing right now and there's not a single thing to claim as the silver lining. Whatever.

She slumps into her chair, pours another glass of whiskey - because what's another _one_ glass going to do on top of the ten others she's already had? - and pulls her laptop closer to email her client that she's got everything he asked for.

The delay in the letters appearing on the screen after she types them is the only warning she gets before her laptop is commandeered and she suddenly has a face-full of an Iron Man helmet.

"God damnit," she mutters irritably, instantly hitting escape and trying to move the cursor around to find a way to close the video.

But Stark has taken complete control, apparently.

" _Whatcha doin'_?" his voice chirps from somewhere behind the helmet.

Jessica hits the escape key a few more times - fruitlessly, but the motion relieves some of her aggression nonetheless - and glares at the dirty fingers gripping the metal face in front of his camera. He must be working on something at the back of the helmet, but she's nowhere near interested in any of it. It's past midnight and she really does _not_ have the energy to deal with him right now, but she _had_ wanted to sit on her laptop for another while yet to at least finish the email to her client.

" _Jones_?" Stark sing-songs questioningly, though still remaining unseen behind the helmet.

Screw it - she can access her emails on her phone instead.

The snap of the laptop closing resonates gratifyingly deep within her soul. She lifts her whiskey glass to her smirking lips and reaches for her phone, but as soon as she opens the mail app, the screen is overrun by a video call from Stark.

She rejects the call.

She makes it to her drafts folder and has just tapped the email she'd started when he calls again.

She rejects it. Again.

Her fingers tap loudly against the screen, tense with irritation.

She has _one fucking word_ left to type when he calls again.

"I'm kind of in the middle of something, here," she snaps as soon as the video loads.

The helmet is still at the forefront of the scene, Stark's head still hidden behind it - not that she's looking for his face or anything. Or, actually, maybe she _is_ , because he's attractive enough to make the intrusion something _nearly_ \- but not completely - worth tolerating. Not enjoyable or welcome, but _tolerable_.

" _Have I told you that your voice is like music to my ears?_ "

"I'm trying to work, Stark," she intones, a hand lifting to rub at her face.

" _Alright, okay, you can have your laptop back_ ," he concedes.

Jessica opens it up again to find that she is, indeed, back in control. But her eyes narrow at her phone screen. "Just my laptop?" she asks, even though she knows the answer.

" _Well, it's rude to hang up on people_ ," he muses, " _And I'm a very tenacious person_."

"So, if I hang up on you now, you're gonna keep harassing me," she translates.

" _Is 'harassing' really the word you wanna use? I'm not sure if you're aware, but it has some pretty unfavourable connotations._ "

Jessica's lips twitch as she finishes off her email on her laptop. "It's not my fault those connotations match up with a lot of your characteristics."

" _You're lucky I don't have a kink for leather-clad, grumpy-faced, strong-armed women constantly insulting me on a day-to-day basis_."

"I'd believe that if you weren't constantly pissing me off," she retorts. Then her face scrunches indignantly. "Besides, I haven't spoken to you in a week, so it's not every day. If you can't handle an insult once a week then-"

" _Yeah, what's with that, by the way_?" he cuts in. " _I thought you'd have swung by today._ "

"You trying to tell me you missed me?" she scoffs.

" _I just wondered whether the psycho client had finally decided that if_ he _couldn't have you then he'd just have to kill you_."

The helmet clunks noisily against the surface he's working on when he lowers it, bringing his face into view. He blinks and draws his chin closer to his neck, an eyebrow quirking in confusion when he looks at whatever screen her video is displayed on.

" _Alright, what am I lookin' at, here? Have you actually been kidnapped_?"

Jessica smirks at the phone lying on her desk, pointing up at her ceiling. "No."

She watches as he leans forward and squints at the screen, his mouth curling with something that looks an awful lot like distaste. " _Is this your apartment? Are you seriously sitting in the dark? That's a little overdramatic, even for you_."

She tilts her head to the side and leans back in her chair, taking another sip from her glass. There's something almost calming about this set-up, where she can observe and irritate him whilst remaining hidden and unreadable.

" _I don't like this. This isn't fun for me. Don't you wanna show me your face to reassure me that you've not been kidnapped or killed by your obsessive client?_ "

"I haven't been kidnapped or killed. That should be enough for you. Are you done?"

He clicks his tongue disapprovingly, scowling like a child being refused a toy. " _You're doing your face a disservice_ ," he claims.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she frowns, leaning back towards her laptop even though her eyes remain focused on her phone.

" _Well, it's a very admirable face. It deserves to be admired. You're not letting it be admired. Ergo, a disservice._ "

"You're ridiculous," she mutters, finally looking back to her laptop.

" _Your face is ridiculous_."

"Do you _need_ something, Stark?" she asks sharply.

A glance at her phone shows his shit-eating grin, and she purses her lips and clenches her jaw to put a stop to the amused smile that threatens to break.

" _Alright, all jokes aside, I really was expecting you to come by after King had visited_."

Jessica takes a deep breath and rolls her shoulders back. "I probably would've," she admits. "If he'd shown."

Stark frowns gently and leans back in his chair, his fingers playing with a small tool. " _Well, that's an interesting and unexpected development_ ," he mutters. " _You sure you didn't murder him_?"

"Pretty sure," she intones, sending a flat glance at her phone.

" _He hasn't contacted you at all_?"

"No. I tailed him a few times through the week and nothing seemed different. I dunno what happened," she answers, frowning.

Stark sighs dramatically and leans his head back, exposing his throat. " _Maybe he's found a new woman to stalk since you didn't show any interest in him. Or, maybe you did, and since the thrill of the chase is gone, he's gotten bored._ "

Jessica lifts her gaze from where she'd been watching his Adam's apple bobbing as he spoke, scowling when she registers his words. "I didn't show any interest," she denies irritably. "And that's not what was going on, anyway." She slumps against the back of her chair, sighing. "Maybe he realised I was talking to you and got spooked."

Stark spins his chair in a circle idly, still fiddling with the tool in his hands and letting his head hang back behind his shoulders. " _What're you gonna do when he breaks into your apartment in the middle of the night to kidnap you_?"

Jessica scoffs. "It's nearly 1am, Stark. And, anyway, he-"

" _Yeah, you're right. He'll know your sleeping pattern is all kinds of fucked up by now. What's the equivalent of the middle of the night for you, then? 6am?_ "

"He's not gonna-"

" _Y'know, you could always use one of the unnecessarily-many bedrooms I have in this place to hide out so he can't kidnap you_."

"He wont-"

" _Unless you_ want _him to kidnap you - is that the angle you're playing? I have to tell you, Jones, it's not the_ best _plan I've heard, even if-_ "

"Jesus christ, shut up," Jessica groans, leaning forward onto the desk again.

She picks her phone up to hold it in front of her face, scowling at the video. Stark's chair spins round to bring him facing his desk again and he lifts his head up, lips pursed in an expression that exudes how distinctly unimpressed he is with the interruption. But then his gaze lands on the screen and a smug smirk stretches his lips into his cheek. He tilts forward in his chair to lean his elbows on his desk and prop his chin on his hands.

" _There she is_ ," he says quietly, eyes bright with amusement.

Jessica's teeth bite into each other as she attempts a deep, calming breath. She blames the alcohol corrupting her system for entertaining him for this long. "You infuriate me," she mutters, almost by accident.

He grins, all charming and relaxed and genuine, his teeth flashing and eyes crinkling, and she bites back an answering smile. The alcohol is definitely working against her tonight.

"You should probably have JARVIS keep an eye out for any stories," she says.

Stark's grin drops when he rolls his eyes. " _I'm tellin' you, this guy wasn't interested in me. It was you he was focused on._ "

Jessica licks her lips on a sharp, frustrated inhale. "Then why didn't he show up today?" she challenges.

" _He's working on a nefarious plan to kidnap and seduce you_."

Jessica's face twists uncomfortably before she can hide it, and the playfulness in Stark's expression instantly sombers. Her eye twitches when a particularly insistent whisper ghosts across the nape of her neck. Stark's mouth closes tightly, the skin on his forehead scrunching, and she sees the regret in his soft gaze.

" _Jones-_ "

"Look, just watch out for anything that might be King. I'll let you know if I come across anything," she mutters, her skin crawling with discomfort and paranoia.

She sees his jaw clench for a beat, his brow furrowing harshly. But then he nods and she ends the call, watching as his face and lab disappears and is replaced by the now-completed email she was working on before.

The darkness presses in around her again, eliminating any kind of positive feelings the brief conversation attempted to give her, and she reminds herself that there are no silver linings in her life right now. Positivity isn't consistent and is too easily suffocated by the paranoia and trauma and darkness to be of any use.

The fact that she's _disappointed_ that Stark's banter can't act as a silver lining is certainly, as he said, an unexpected development.

* * *

Over the next few days, there is a distinct lack of break-ins and attempted kidnappings performed by Thomas King, and she hasn't found any signs of him trying to leak the story about embezzlement to tarnish Stark's reputation. Jessica continues to feel on-edge and paranoid, and eventually, after nearly attacking a random guy when he bumped into her on the street and her mind instantly panicked that he was out to get her, she decides to track King down and confront him. She's had enough of speculating and arguing about intentions with Stark. The billionaire himself hasn't attempted to make any contact since their last talk turned dark, which Jessica is grateful for, but she's now also speculating about how much Stark has been able to piece together about her and her past from her behaviour and reactions, and it's doing nothing to ease her tension.

She reminds herself of all this when she finally sees Thomas King share a cheerful goodbye with his work colleague and step onto the sidewalk to head home for the day. Her skin is crawling with discomfort, having watched him converse animatedly with his colleague for the last ten minutes in a completely unsettling contrast to how he has behaved around Jessica the two times he came to her office. His movements have been relaxed and open, his expression morphing genuinely according to the sentiments of the conversation, and it's almost enough for her already-paranoid mind to question whether she'd just imagined the cold rigidity of his delivery in her conversations with him, because he seems like a completely different person.

There's a particularly quiet street that Jessica knows he walks down between his work and apartment, a street with a particularly secluded alleyway with a convenient lack of natural light. She follows him at a reasonable distance until they finally come across the quiet street, and then she stalks forward quickly to catch up to him at the mouth of the alley.

"What the hell are you-" he demands when she grabs at the back of his jacket and shoves him into the alleyway. He stumbles and turns to throw an incredulous look at her, but the confusion morphs into sheer panic when he realises who she is. "Oh _god_ ," he chokes out, tripping over his feet as he hurries away from her and helpfully further into the alley.

"Hey, Tommy," she bites out, striding after him to encourage him deeper into the shadows. "Where have you been? You missed our weekly appointment."

He pauses for a fraction of a second, and the glance he throws over her shoulder gives her plenty of warning before he springs forward and attempts to dart past her. She catches him by the lapels of his suit jacket and pushes him backwards until he slams against the wall behind him, and his cry of pain when his head hits the bricks makes her purse her lips with frustration. She hadn't expected to be so uncontrolled with him; she'll need to be extra careful.

His hand snatches up to try and push her away but she grabs him at the wrist, her other arm bending at the elbow to press her forearm over his throat warningly.

So much for control.

"Stop moving," she grinds out. "Or I'll break your wrist."

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry!" he whimpers, face crumpling with fear and pain.

Jessica scowls, confused. "Why didn't you come by my office the other day?" she snaps.

"I'm just- I wasn't interested anymore," he stutters, his free hand raised at his side in a placating manner, palm facing her and fingers spread wide. "I didn't need the information!"

Jessica's mouth twists. "You gave me all that money just to _lose interest_?"

"I swear! I swear I don't need the information anymore, please don't hurt me!"

Jessica stares hard at him, trying to read his expression - but how accurate are her impressions going to be when he was able to act like a whole other person in her office?

"Why did you want it in the first place?" she asks, pressing harder into his neck.

"I didn't- I- you-" he stumbles, eyes glassy with fearful tears.

"Don't bullshit me," she snaps.

"Someone made me do it!" he cries out, squeezing his eyes shut after as if frustrated with himself.

Jessica frowns at him. "What? Who?"

"I- I don't know, I can't- they-"

"Did you tell them about the embezzlement?" she cuts in, her voice harsh.

"No, no, I didn't tell them anything you told me, I swear!"

Confusion and anger swirl in Jessica's chest. "Then what'd they want?" she scowls.

"I- I'm sorry, okay? They made me do it! They made me go to you!" he cries.

" _Why_?" she snaps, impatient. "Who made you?"

His eyes bulge in his head, his expression twisting desperately. "I can't tell you, I can't tell you!" he sobs, and now his free hand is grabbing at her arm.

Jessica's fingers tighten around his wrist, her heart hammering in her chest. The whispers are crawling up her neck and reaching for her ears, her vision pulsing with her rage and paranoia.

"You're gonna tell me what they wanted with Stark or I swear to _god_ I'm gonna-" she's hissing, but a voice from the mouth of the alley cuts through the tension.

"Hey!"

Jessica growls out a noise of utter frustration and drops her hold on King, her teeth biting into each other painfully when the man takes the opportunity to flee from her back towards the street, cradling his wrist to his chest. The civilian at the entrance of the alley reaches out for King to try and help him, but he just shoves past the man and runs off.

Jessica uses the civilian's moment of distraction to stalk over to a door further down the alley, pressing her shoulder against it and shoving with some extra strength to break it open. She steps inside the dark corridor and shuts the door behind her again, glancing around with wide eyes until she figures she's in an apartment building. She finds her way to the street-side entrance and pushes out into the crowd of pedestrians, marching without a destination in mind until she puts a good enough distance between herself and the scene.

Her shoulders and neck are rigid with tension, her heart still thumping noisily in her ears, her breathing sharp and ragged. She doesn't care how she looks to the people around her - she needs to say her mantra.

"Main Street. Birch Street-" she bites out, fists clenched at her sides.

The people within earshot avidly avoid eye contact and give her a wide berth.

"-Higgins Drive. Cobalt Lane," she breathes, hands slowly relaxing.

She focuses on inhaling and exhaling, letting the steady thumping of her footsteps create a rhythm to latch onto so she doesn't feel like she's flailing helplessly into a black hole of terror and rage. And, for the first time in _years_ , Jessica finds herself wishing she could leap into the open sky and fly off to escape the claustrophobic clutches of paranoia.

Yet another unexpected development to completely and utterly ignore.

* * *

Tony is stood at one of his desks, arms crossed over his chest as he peruses the different projects his Research and Development department are working on at the moment, and resolutely _not_ looking over at Bruce working away on his own project a few desks over. The timid alter ego of the green rage-monster had arrived a couple of hours ago, allowed entrance by Tony's traitorous technological butler, and claimed he was only there for a simple change of scenery. Tony knew better, of course, and has since seen Bruce send off a not-so-discreet text to someone he imagines was likely Rogers or Romanoff, or both, just to prove his own, unspoken point.

Addressing the real reason Bruce is here would open the conversation up to pity and those _looks_ that Tony hates and it all just makes him feel like a toddler that needs babysitting and he doesn't need them trying and failing to _understand_.

And, on top of it all, it's the third consecutive day that he has not settled on an appropriate text to send Jessica after he clearly struck a nerve the last time they spoke. He'd been constructing the latest attempt at a draft when Bruce had shown up, and he figured focusing his attention on the work of his company's most interesting department would be a decent distraction.

While Bruce's presence is _nice_ in its own way, and Tony admittedly _enjoyed_ the brief banter they shared before both getting to work, it also puts him slightly on-edge because of what it means. Because it means that Tony is viewed as a liability, as someone who can't be trusted alone in case he self-destructs - and, yes, _fine_ , maybe those assumptions aren't completely inaccurate; but it still makes him feel like shit.

And when his phone starts vibrating on the desk and the words _The Not-Avenger Avenger_ flash up on his screen, Bruce's presence threatens to expose Tony's newfound camaraderie with a woman everyone else thinks hasn't been seen or heard from since the attack.

He snatches his phone up and answers the call anyway - because _Jessica_ is _phoning him_ and he can't imagine what sort of situation she'd have to be in before she initiated contact like that.

"Hey, you alright?" he asks as soon as he answers, turning his back to Bruce but catching the man's glance in the reflection of his glass walls anyway.

" _I just cornered King_ ," she answers.

He can hear the noise of the city in the background, cars honking and civilians chattering and shouting, but her voice is all he can focus on. It's tight with tension and anger, and he has to stop himself from demanding JARVIS find her location in front of Bruce.

"What happened?" he asks instead.

" _Someone put him up to it,_ " she says stiffly. " _Wouldn't tell me who, or why._ "

Tony frowns. "Did he say why he didn't come see you?"

" _He_ said _it's because he's not interested and doesn't need the information anymore_."

"But you think he's lying."

" _I_ know _he's lying. Someone wanted that information and now they don't. Maybe it's because they figured out I was telling you everything, I dunno, but maybe something bigger's going on._ "

"Maybe it was never about the information," he says, and he fully believes it, even if he's been joking about it to her the past couple weeks.

" _No, don't-_ " she cuts in, an almost pleading note in her voice that has his body tensing. " _Listen, I dunno what's going on and I dunno if I'm gonna be able to find out. You need to get JARVIS to keep an eye on King in case this secret puppeteer kills him or something so he doesn't tell us everything._ "

"Where are you? Are you still with him? We could bring him here-"

" _Some fucking do-gooder interrupted our little talk_ ," she spits out. The malice in her voice settles uncomfortably cold in his chest. " _He's gonna be looking out for me, now_."

"You want me to-"

" _No,_ " she says quickly. " _No, just- let me handle it._ "

Tony purses his lips and sighs harshly through his nose. "You know you don't need to do it alone," he says quietly.

" _Just get JARVIS to monitor him, his calls, whatever. I'll keep tailing him. If I can get him alone again, I'll get him to talk_."

"Right, because _that_ doesn't sound ominous, like, at all," he bites out, frustrated.

" _We don't know what's actually going on here, Stark_ ," she retorts. " _The sooner we find out, the better._ "

"Yeah? And what if you're playing right into this big plan?" he challenges, gesturing a hand irritably.

" _Then I'll find whoever's behind it and break their legs._ "

He huffs out another frustrated breath, lifting his hand to press against his forehead as he squeezes his eyes shut. "You don't think they'll be _prepared_ for that kind of attitude?"

" _They're after you, not me_."

"They specifically went to _you_ ," he grinds out, eyes now blown wide with annoyance. Why can't she see that _she's_ the most likely target here?

" _Yeah, because they thought I hated you_ ," she counters impatiently. " _And now they must've figured out that I've been telling you everything, so they've backed off and might try a different angle_."

"And you don't think a different angle might involve-"

" _I'm the goddamn PI, Stark,_ " she snaps. " _You focus on keeping vigilant and I'll do the legwork and detective shit, alright_?"

And she hangs up before he can argue any further.

"Damnit," he mutters, body tense with agitation, as he drops the phone to his hip and lifts his free hand to rub at his face.

"You alright?" Bruce's voice echoes tentatively.

Tony rolls his shoulders back and starts a brisk walk towards the door. "Feel free to stay as long as you like, bud," he says over his shoulder, risking a glance at Bruce's concerned expression. "You can see yourself out, right?"

"Tony, who was-"

"Great to see you, pal!" he calls as he pushes through the door. "Really. Come back soon!"

He marches towards the lift at the end of the hallway, face twisting at the emotions burning in his chest. He doesn't fully understand what's going on with Jessica, what she's dealing with, but he knows that it's been ramped up a notch the past couple of weeks, and he can't shake the feeling that it's going to build to a crescendo of destructive proportions. And, yeah, sue him, he's concerned that Jessica's going to wind up getting herself hurt in the process.

When he's safely in the lift, JARVIS speaks up. " _Sir, shall I set up extra precautions and enquiries as Miss Jones suggested?_ "

Tony sucks his teeth for a moment. "Sure, whatever," he mutters finally. "But I think it's time we infringed on Miss Jones' privacy a little, too."

" _Sir?_ "

He tuts irritably at himself, knowing she'd likely kill him if she found out. "I wanna find a CCTV camera that can sit on her apartment - if there isn't one, make one - and monitor her phone for any indications of foul play."

" _Do you believe she's in danger_?"

Tony's fists clench. "I dunno. But I'll be damned if I stand back and let her risk it."

He remembers the way she said that the puppeteer thought she hated him, as if the truth is the opposite, as if she doesn't just _not hate_ him, but she actually _likes_ him. And isn't that an unexpected development in their relationship.


	13. Dashing Good Looks and Irresistible Charm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony makes amends and a certain detective has a few questions for Jessica.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, sorry for the delay! Here's the latest chapter, I hope you enjoy - please leave any and all feedback in the comments!

For someone whose entire income and therefore survival relies heavily on potential clients approaching her over the phone or physically at her apartment-slash-office, Jessica _really_ hates it when potential clients send her a message or knock on her door. And, right now, it appears there's one of each, just to make doubly sure she wakes up in a _peachy_ mood.

Sunlight is streaming aggressively through her window - apparently she forgot to close the blinds last night somewhere between finishing a bottle of bourbon and face-planting on her mattress - and her entire face crumples in an attempt to shield her eyes from the searing brightness. Wrapping her fingers around her phone and pulling it from the charging cable in the process, Jessica rolls onto her other side so the sunlight hits her back instead. Her eyelids are leaden when she pries them open, a hangover headache throbbing just above her left temple in protest of all the movement, and she glares down at the screen of her phone.

She reads the text from Stark - " _I'm about to knock on your door fyi"_ \- just as another series of knocks echo through her apartment. Two sharp knocks, a single knock, and then two more in quick succession. The beat feels infuriatingly jovial at this stage in Jessica's awakening, and she humours for a moment the idea of just ignoring the man and pretending she isn't home.

She rolls onto her back again now that her eyes have become more accustomed to the light bouncing around her bedroom and runs her hands through her hair, wincing when her fingers catch on stubborn knots. There's a sour, foul taste in her mouth after her night of drinking - although _day_ of drinking would probably be more accurate - and her head rolls as she looks across her bedroom to her waiting bathroom.

Her phone buzzes on her bed again and she hauls her head over to the other side of her neck to look at the screen.

" _I have food and coffee"_.

Groaning quietly to herself, Jessica drags her body out from under the tangle of sheets and stumbles around her room in search of a fresh pair of underwear and some jeans. Her mind clears as she moves, even as her headache throbs insistently, and she realises getting Stark out of the hallway and away from " _Who's Tony?"_ -Malcolm is probably a good idea.

The door sticks a little when she jerks it open, as does her brain when she looks up at Stark. He flashes her a cheeky grin from under a pair of large sunglasses, a baseball cap, and a hood. The hood belongs to a zipped sweatshirt which he wears under a leather jacket, and he's in a pair of distressed jeans and black sneakers with white soles. His hands, which are in fingerless gloves, hold his phone at his stomach and balance a styrofoam container with two coffee cups on top. His chin is leaning on the tops of the cups to keep them balanced, and they don't even waver when he throws her that grin.

Even with his surprisingly-thoughtful heads-up, the sight of _Tony Stark_ standing outside Jessica's apartment is utterly surreal and mildly disconcerting. But she steps to the side and opens the door wider, dropping her irritated gaze to the wall. Stark clears his throat and stoops to pick something up from behind his legs before striding across the threshold into her home.

He inhales deeply as she closes the door behind him, sending a quick glance into the hallway to check for Malcolm, and then lets it all out again in a contented sigh. "Wow, what's that fragrance? It's like a choking, melancholy, apathetic sort of perfume - very unique and absolutely unsurprising."

"I'll bottle it up for you so you can live somewhere that doesn't smell of clinical experimentation and narcissism," Jessica grunts, snatching one of the coffees from under his chin. She shuffles to her desk and stretches up on her toes to lift her ass on top of it.

Stark hums thoughtfully and moves to stand next to her, depositing the container and a simple, narrow gift bag at her side. "Speaking of bottles."

Jessica swallows a mouthful of coffee to wash away the taste of her hangover and frowns between the bag and Stark, but he swipes his sunglasses off his face and turns away from her to peruse her living room. "What's this?" she mutters, peering cautiously over the edge of the bag to see inside. "Whiskey?"

"Yeah, I dunno _what_ about you spoke to me, but I just had a feeling it might be something you'd enjoy." His head tilts sideways as he swivels on his feet to face her again. "Maybe 'enjoy' isn't the right word. Lean on? Wallow in? _Guzzle_ in order to make the agony of existence a little more bearable?"

Jessica glares at him. "Did you stop being a recluse for the first time in weeks just to come here and make me feel worse about myself?" But she grabs the neck of the bottle and pulls it from the gift bag to inspect it.

"It was the only logical thing to do," he shrugs, pulling his hood down.

Jessica blinks at the label on the bottle, recognising it from the shelf she avoids - not that she even frequents stores _with_ that kind of shelf - as something far beyond her usual budget. She places it down on her desk with a dull thud and glances up at Stark again, sharing an awkward, unspoken look with the man. Because this isn't a bottle to taunt and mock her, it's a bottle to _apologise_.

It has been almost a week since he made a comment that cut a little too close to home, and she hadn't heard anything from him after she called him about confronting King. The only reason she hasn't forgotten about the unpleasant incident is because it makes her uneasy that she'd left another hint for him to pick up on about her past, her fears, her _weaknesses_. She remembers the quiet shame she felt admitting what she was afraid of to disprove his assumption of it being her powers, back when she'd stayed at the Tower after the Battle of New York - it itches uncomfortably under her skin whenever she thinks back to it, when she wonders if Stark remembers and thinks about it, too. She has already bared herself too much to this man, she doesn't need to make it worse.

"What's with the outfit?" she asks, silently accepting his apology-alcohol.

He grins roguishly. "It's my incognito mode," he boasts, lifting his arms at his sides and flaunting a leg in front of him. "What d'you think?"

Jessica swallows another mouthful of coffee. "You look like a paedophile."

Stark scoffs indignantly, crossing his arms over his chest. "Well, _you_ smell like one. _And_ you live like one."

"No, I don't," Jessica denies, her brow furrowing even as her mouth twitches into a tiny, amused smile.

"I've gotta admit, it's not as abandoned and murdery as I was expecting it to be. I'm honestly very pleasantly surprised by the abundance of furniture and natural light."

Jessica shrugs, a smirk tugging at her lips. "Lotta pretences to uphold."

Stark huffs out a quiet laugh. "Yeah," he mutters, glancing around. "So, uh, not to bring the mood down from paedophilia, but have you heard anything since last week?"

Jessica clenches her jaw and lowers her coffee cup to her thighs, a pointer finger tapping it irritably. "No. You?"

Stark clicks his tongue and scuffs the toe of his sneaker against her floor. "Nada. Kinda seems like he's sticking to his abandonment, huh?"

Her cheek twitches uneasily. "For now. The puppeteer could still change their mind."

The sigh Stark heaves is weary and discontented, and it draws Jessica's attention to his face. He might be out and about for the first time - that she's seen, anyway - since they came back to the Tower after getting shawarma, but his face looks as pale and drawn as ever. The bags under his eyes are so heavy she can almost feel them, and his frown looks much easier on his muscles than his earlier grins. She wonders if it's always been that way, or if it was only reserved for down days and has been exacerbated since he nearly died saving the city.

"What's your boyband up to these days?" she asks, consciously twisting her lips into a teasing smirk. "No new gigs?"

He rolls his eyes. "Not at the moment - there was some bureaucratic riffraff to sort through, and all the supervillains have seemingly agreed to take a vacation so we can get some R and R."

"Do you have to do all of that cushy team-bonding shit?"

"There may be concerns that we are only capable of playing nice in the face of catastrophic danger."

Jessica scoffs. "To be honest, I'd expected something a hell of a lot more dysfunctional than what you bozos turned out to be," she comments.

"Oh, yeah, that's right. I forget the pirate tried to lure you out into the open seas."

"Yeah, I get easily seasick."

"It's not for everyone," he shrugs.

More for something to _do_ than anything else, Jessica hooks a finger under the lid of the styrofoam container and flicks it up. Instantly, a warm breath of air wafts up to her nose, sweet and salty. She smirks at the waffles and bacon in the container and lifts a questioning eyebrow at Stark.

"Can't go wrong," he grins.

Jessica slides off her desk and wanders through to the kitchen. Her socks are probably picking up dried mud and dust from the floors she rarely remembers to sweep, but she hadn't really been planning on leaving her apartment today, so she'd neglected the boots abandoned in a corner of her bedroom. It's a stroke of luck that there are two clean forks in the kitchen drawer, but she keeps that to herself when she returns to the living-room-slash-office and hands one to Stark. She takes up the chair at her desk and he lifts a leg up to half-sit on the left corner, moving the container between them. They stab their forks into the waffles, using each other's movements to aid their own pursuits of separating a chunk.

A few minutes pass by silently, neither deeming it necessary to fill the empty air with anything other than the dull punctures of their forks in the styrofoam when they stab too far. It's almost comfortable - _companionable._

Jessica wonders, then, if that makes her some kind of masochist when she licks the syrup from her lips and asks stiffly, "Have they spoken to you about me?"

There's a quick, sharp huff of air from Stark before he stabs into a section of waffle particularly-aggressively. "You assume they talk to me at all," he mutters. When he glances at her, all she can do is frown up at him, waiting. He takes a deep breath, straightening to crack his back, and shoves a chunk of waffle in his mouth. "No, they haven't spoken about you. I don't think they know we've had any interaction since the incident. Or, if they do, they don't care."

"I think Romanoff knows," Jessica replies, stabbing her fork into the waffle and leaving it to stand alone as she reaches for her coffee. "She came by one day and made a comment about.. having friends."

Stark sniffs, maintaining his attention on their shared food. "She must like you," he comments. "Banner comes by sometimes. He's alright to be around - gets on with science shit. I don't think the others know what to do with me."

Jessica leans back in her chair and huffs out a bitter breath. "God forbid they just spend time with you instead of _doing something_."

Stark clicks his tongue, shrugging again. "They have their own shit to deal with. Well, Rogers and Banner do, anyway. Hard to get a read on the assassins, and Thor's gone back to his world, so."

Jessica runs her tongue along her bottom lip, wrapping her hands around the warmth of her coffee cup as she leans it on her abdomen. She kicks her feet out under her desk and crosses her legs at the ankles, her toes twitching. They're doing it again, toeing around the edge of their shared problem, more explicit and revealing than their usual back-and-forth, and the two parts of her are at odds once more - one part wanting to kick him out and never get this close to _talking_ about their _feelings_ again, and the other part knowing how much it would have taken for Stark to come here and _seeing_ that it might be helpful for him to have someone acknowledge this difficulty they're referencing.

"They mean well," she mutters eventually, her words stilted and pushed out between barely-open lips. "It's hard for them to know what to do."

Stark prods at the waffle some more with his fork, but he hasn't taken an actual bite in a while. "And it's hard to point them in the right direction."

Jessica takes a breath and looks away, rolling her shoulders back. There's a pressure pushing down on her chest from being so open, an instinctual drive to suppress it and close everything up again. She can remember, when she had finally managed to flee from _him_ and went to the safest place she could think of, how Trish had been _so good_ with giving her space at the start. Eventually, though, Trish had wanted to _talk_ , to help Jessica face and move past her trauma, and the echo of repulsion and aggression from those times still burns in her stomach when she thinks about it. Communication has never been her forte, but she knows she was _especially_ stunted when she had bent to Trish's will and opened up about everything that had happened, everything she'd _done_. She never really figured out whether the _admitting_ part was the worst, or if it was the way that Trish was never _once_ anything other than understanding and forgiving. After a few months, it had become too much, and Jessica had focused instead on isolating herself and maintaining her business, where she could safely suppress everything instead.

Coming so close to death and surviving it, that's something Jessica is familiar with. There's something so hauntingly _raw_ about facing one's own mortality, about knowing yourself in that moment where your life is condensed and compressed into a tiny millisecond too elusive to comprehend. That moment before death is one thing, but coming back around _afterwards_ to learn that you've survived - that is something altogether different. There aren't the words in any language to convey what it does to you, to your mind, to your sense of self, no poetry or psychoanalysis that truly grasps the horror of it to communicate it effectively. And every moment is different for everyone, in every different scenario. Jessica's experience will in no way compare to Stark's, and vice-versa. They are completely isolated incidents, incapable of being communicated and shared, and that's what makes you feel so _alone_ even when there are people around you trying to pick you up and piece you back together again.

Jessica closes her eyes and bites down on her teeth when a whisper ghosts across the back of her neck.

"So, JARVIS hasn't picked anything up either?" she asks, shaking a lock of hair out of her face when she looks up at Stark again.

His chest expands on a deep inhale, his eyebrows lifting as his head tilts, and he spears another chunk of waffle to lift in the air. "Nothing out of the ordinary," he answers. When he removes the waffle from his fork with his teeth, he lets the fork drop down in the empty lid of the container and he sits up straight, brushing his hands together. "But we're keeping vigilant, as requested. Of course, the offer still stands if you need an extra pair of legs to do the investigative work. Turns out it's actually nice to get outta the Tower."

Jessica offers him a small smile. "Well, I appreciate the offer," she says.

His mouth twitches and he sniffs, nodding once, and she thinks he understands the unspoken addition - that she also appreciates the fact that it _is_ an offer, and not a demand or forced intrusion. She wonders briefly if he's so keen to help her, has given up on convincing her it's nothing, because it gives them a reason to interact, a reason to hide behind when they might both be silently benefitting from the shared, trauma-avoiding, companionship.

Jessica pushes to her feet and Stark takes the hint amiably, swiping his coffee from her desk while he pushes off of it.

"And thank you for the hangover cure," she smirks, gesturing to the container that's now almost empty. She leaves her coffee on the desk and walks behind him when he saunters to the door.

"Oh, absolutely. Any time. Happy to deliver caffeine, sugar, and salt whenever required," he chirps. "And then, of course, allow you to abruptly escort me off the premises."

"I've got a lot to do today," she responds, giving him a false grimace when he looks over his shoulder at her.

He scoffs and reaches out for the door handle, but falters when she grabs his arm. It's easy to forget that he's actually well-built when his intellect seems to trump everything else, and easy to miss under his layers of clothing; but she can feel his bicep under her fingers, firm and curved.

Jessica pulls her hand back to cross her arms over her chest, nodding at him. "You're forgetting your incognito mode accessories."

He smirks and retrieves his sunglasses from his pocket, giving her a teasing, curious expression when he pulls his hood up over his cap again. "Concerned for my well-being, Miss Jones?"

"No, I just don't need all of _this_ ," she grunts, extracting a hand from under her arm to gesture at his person. "It's bad for business."

"What, dashing good looks and irresistible charm?" he smirks, quirking an eyebrow at her.

"No," she retorts flatly, rolling her eyes. "Fame." _And Malcolm's obsession with figuring out who you are_.

"You're right," he muses, but there's a gleam in his warm eyes that makes her narrow her own. "Fame would turn you into a monster, I'm sure. You'd be a _diva_. Uncontrollable. _God_ , the fashion _alone_!" he hisses scandalously, a hand slapping to his chest.

Jessica fails to bite back her grin when she reaches past his chest to open the door for him. "Alright," she says, cutting off whatever he was about to say next. "Get outta here before I throw you out the window."

"You say the sweetest things, dear," he grins, giving her a quick wink before sliding his sunglasses back onto his nose. He walks through the doorway and takes a sip of coffee before throwing his fingers up over his shoulder, his pointer and middle fingers shaped in a 'V'. "Peace!" he calls cheerfully.

Jessica purses her lips together in a flat line, but the corners of her mouth fight against her, curving up into her cheeks. She closes the door on the image of him sauntering down her hallway, and turns back to the unfinished waffle and bacon on her desk. She supposes the least she could do is finish it off.

* * *

Jessica is no stranger to being intimidated. Well, she's no stranger to people _trying_ to intimidate her. She wishes she could say she _is_ a stranger to the police being the ones attempting the intimidation, but she's no stranger to that either. She's had her fair share of weird and reputation-threatening cases over her time as a PI. A few times she's had to come in to provide alibis for suspects, or evidence for victims, and there have been a couple of instances where she's been questioned about a client or target's injuries, or worse. On those days, when she's sitting at the cold table in the dimly-lit room with the black glass and the uncomfortable chairs, she's usually bored or irritated, more than anything - and definitely _not_ intimidated.

Intimidated still isn't the right word for it, today; but there's definitely something _uneasy_ swirling in the pit of her stomach.

The door to her right opens and she turns to watch the detective enter the interrogation room, a file clasped in his hand. "Sorry about the wait, Ms Jones," he says.

Jessica's eyes twitch disbelievingly. "No, you're not."

He gives her a flat smile, pausing to consider her for a moment. Then he takes a breath and approaches the chair opposite her. "I'm Detective Clemons." He lets the file drop to the table between them and presses his hand against his tie and badge as he sits down. "Something tells me you're a woman who appreciates getting straight to the point - and I am a man looking to solve a case as quickly as possible. So, let's just get started, shall we?"

Jessica gives him a dry smile. "I'm waiting."

He huffs out a quiet, unimpressed scoff. "Alright, Ms Jones. What can you tell us about your relationship with a man named Thomas King?"

Jessica shifts further back into her uncomfortable chair, licking her lips. "He came to me about three weeks ago with a job. He wanted dirt on Tony Stark."

Clemons' eyes narrow, his fingertips fiddling with the corner edge of his file. "Pretty big target. Did he say why?"

"I asked. Wouldn't give."

He nods slowly. "Alright. Did you accept the job?"

Jessica tilts her head, taking a breath. "I told him I'd look into it."

"And did you?"

She grits her teeth for a moment. "Not exactly. I looked into him instead."

"What does that mean, 'looked into him'?"

Jessica shrugs. "Standard PI shit. I followed him around, tried to figure out what he wouldn't tell me."

"Any luck?"

"No."

He nods again. "So, what did you do?"

Jessica sighs and licks her lips again. She really has no interest in divulging this information to anyone, let alone someone she doesn't know and trust. "I went to Stark to see if I could work out a connection from that end of things. And, no, there still wasn't any discernible motive even from that angle."

Clemons thankfully doesn't show much of a reaction to the information that she and Tony Stark are on talking terms. "Was that the only time you interacted with him?"

"No. He came back a week later to check on my progress."

"What did you tell him?"

"I fed him some bullshit line that Stark made up. We were gonna see if the media suddenly exploded with the story, or if someone would try to blackmail him with it or something."

"And they never did?"

Jessica gives him a humourless smirk. "No. And King apparently lost interest in the whole thing."

Clemons' eyebrow quirks. "Is that an assumption, or a quote?"

Jessica exhales sharply and leans forward onto the table. "Listen, we don't need to beat around the bush, okay? I'm guessing he or that random asshole ratted on me for confronting him in the alley, right?"

"We got an anonymous tip about the altercation, yes," he responds evenly. His fingertip slips under the file's cover and flips it open for Jessica to see. "But that's not the only incident I'd like to discuss today."

Jessica's eyes fall to the printed photograph at the top of the pile of paperwork on the table before her. Her brow furrows, lips parting, and a hesitant hand reaches out to touch the edge of the photograph. Her face twists away, but her eyes remain glued to the scene pictured. The hairs on the back of her neck stand on-end.

"What the hell is that?" she asks quietly.

"That is Thomas King," Clemons answers gravely. "Two days ago. We've got receipts for the gun he purchased thirty minutes before he shot himself in the head. No note, no explanation. We were ready to rule it off as a suicide. And then someone called in to tell us about you roughing him up in an alleyway and _they_ claimed you were strong and angry enough to kill King and make it _look_ like a suicide."

Jessica drags her gaze up to his face and glares at him. "That's stupid. Why the hell would I kill him?"

Clemons leans his elbows on the table and crosses his arms. "That's what I'm trying to figure out, Ms Jones."

Jessica slumps back in her chair again. "Look, I went to find him that day because he hadn't shown up to ask for progress on the Stark thing and my gut was telling me something was off about it all."

"And was it your _gut_ that made you pin him against the wall?"

Jessica's jaw clenches. "He tried to run away without answering my questions. I just wanted to know if Stark was still in danger or not."

Clemons eyes her disbelievingly. "You thought that Thomas King was a danger to someone like Tony Stark? _The_ Iron Man?"

"It's easy to underestimate people like him," she bites out. "I didn't think it was worth the risk."

Clemons hums thoughtfully. "You wanted to protect Stark," he comments. "What, exactly, is your relationship to him?"

Jessica glares at him again. "Irrelevant."

Clemons' head tilts. "Not if it's the reason you went after King."

"I didn't kill him," Jessica retorts. "I didn't know he was dead."

"You got an alibi to back that up?"

Jessica thinks back to two days ago. Stark came by with waffles and bacon and coffee, and she spent the rest of the day alone nursing her hangover. She lifts a hand to rub at her face, fighting off an aggravated groan. She doesn't want people to _know_ that Stark came by like that, for that reason; she doesn't want them to _assume_ and _question_ and _gossip_. She doesn't need any of that.

"Ms Jones, if you don't have an alibi, we might have a problem. So far all you've convinced me of is you're overprotective of a billionaire superhero and you tend to act aggressively when someone does something you don't like."

"You said he bought the gun himself," she says, scowling as the words come back to her. The uneasiness in her stomach coils and writhes.

"His fingerprints were on the trigger, gun powder on his hands, bullet trajectory matched the suicide theory," Clemons lists. "But that doesn't exclude external factors. Who's to say you weren't there blackmailing him?"

Jessica gives him the most unimpressed and incredulous expression she can manage. "Blackmailing a man over something as _dumb_ as attempting to blackmail Tony Stark?"

"If it was 'dumb', why were you so concerned you had to confront him about it?" Clemons challenges.

"Because I don't like having my time wasted and he rubbed me the wrong way. He came into my office like a goddamn robot and when I saw him on the street he was like a completely different person - it was suspicious as hell."

"Ms Jones, you-"

There's a knock on the door and another officer pushes it open a fraction. "Clemons, she's got an alibi."

Clemons turns back to Jessica with his eyebrows lifted curiously, and Jessica frowns back at him.

"Don't look at me," she mutters.

"Is it solid?" Clemons asks the officer.

The officer smirks. "Yeah, I'd say it's pretty ironclad."

Jessica sighs and rolls her eyes, leaning forward onto the table again. When Clemons eyes her questioningly, she grunts, "Stark."

Clemons' face slackens. " _Tony Stark_ was your alibi, and you never thought to use it?"

The door opens wider and Stark himself steps up next to the officer, rolling his eyes. "She doesn't want anyone to think she might have friends - it'd ruin her reputation."

"You're not my friend," she intones.

"Right. Lord and saviour, then?"

Jessica inhales sharply to fuel her next retort, but Clemons cuts in before she can speak. "Alright, I've heard enough. I guess you're free to go, then, Ms Jones. I appreciate your cooperation today."

"Yeah," Jessica mutters, pushing up out of the uncomfortable chair and taking one last glance at the photograph of King's corpse.

The officer at the door steps into the room so that there's space for Jessica to slip by Stark through the doorway. The billionaire bids the cops a jolly farewell and follows closely as Jessica marches through the precinct, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. The uneasiness in her stomach has wound its way up under her ribs and into her chest, her heart thumping painfully and spreading it to every extremity. The image of King's lifeless gaze is burned into her memory.

When she gets out onto the street, she turns left and continues marching.

"Jones, are we not gonna talk about this?"

Jessica grits her teeth and keeps walking, twisting her head to try and shake off the whispers snaking across her neck.

"Seriously? You're gonna give me the cold shoulder after-"

"What d'you want? A thank-you card?" Jessica snaps, throwing a scowl over her shoulder at him.

" _-after the police finding King dead_ ," Stark finishes pointedly, his voice more heated than Jessica has ever heard it. He appears at her shoulder, making sure not to intrude on her space but close enough to force her to pay attention to him. "You're just gonna walk off and not tell me the plan?"

Jessica stops abruptly and turns to him. She watches as he takes another step before realising and spinning on the balls of his feet, throwing her an expectant look. He's wearing dirtied jeans and a white tank-top covered in oil and grime, but he has a clean, zipped sweatshirt on top. His face is dirtied, his stubble a little more untamed since she saw him two days ago, and the hood of his sweatshirt is up over his head and pushing curled locks of brown hair over his forehead towards his eyes. It's almost disarming - especially when she pieces together that he was probably in the middle of something when he must have heard about her being taken in for questioning, and that he didn't even stop to tidy up for the sake of his reputation before he came to help her.

"Plan?" she repeats, scrunching her face incredulously and focusing on glaring at his eyes, even if they're still somehow warm and a little soft even with the heat of his frustration. "He's dead. Case closed. There is no plan."

"Hang on, _what_?" he demands, bewildered underneath the aggravation. He takes a step closer, eyes blazing and narrowed, mouth twisted disbelievingly. "Since when did you think King was alone in this?"

Jessica closes her eyes for a moment, her shoulders and upper back rigid with tension. She tries to breathe steadily but it feels as though her ribs are constricting around her lungs. "He shot himself in the head," she says, opening her eyes again to stare up at him. "He was unwell. Maybe he got bored and thought he'd see what he could get away with. Maybe he really did lose interest."

Stark scowls at her, jaw clenched and lips pursed. His head is tilted down towards her, partly to preserve the shield of his hood around his face, and partly to really drive the whole _what-the-fuck_ expression on his face home. "Someone forced him to come to you, right?" he says quietly, eyebrows quirking upwards. Jessica grits her teeth and shifts on her feet, the uneasiness in her veins thrumming. Stark glances around them before leaning in a little closer, dropping his voice again. "What if that person also forced him to commit suicide?"

Uneasiness turns into a cold, sharp fear that seizes her every limb. She glares up at him, blinking stupidly, aware that the furrow of her eyebrows is twisting from infuriated to scared. He doesn't know - he _doesn't know_ the fucking weight of those words, the implications, the _associations_ , the past that keeps Jessica shrouded and drowned in a darkness that she doesn't deserve to break free from. There's _so much_ buried in her bones, in her skin, in her hands, that he doesn't know about - that he _can't_ know about - and entertaining this case is only leading him closer to her darkness. She let him get involved, gave him the fucking flashlight, and opened the door to the shadows that plague her. She has no one to blame but herself. She has had _so many_ chances to walk away, leave the case alone, prevent Stark from sniffing out all the clues, and look where it has gotten her.

His eyes are bouncing across her face, concern pulling the corners of his mouth down. His hand twitches at his side as if reconsidering an urge to reach out, and she's grateful he fights it down.

"Maybe he had a tenuous grasp of reality and there wasn't anyone but him involved," she forces out through a stiff jaw. "He wasn't the same person in my office as he was with his colleague-" and, while this is meant to persuade Stark that there was nothing else going on, the statement sends an ice-cold shiver of fear down her spine, "-maybe he was just a sociopath satisfying a curiosity."

"Maybe," Stark hisses. "Or maybe he was telling the truth and there's someone else involved. Someone who convinced or inspired a man to shoot himself in the goddamn head."

Goosebumps burst over Jessica's neck and she throws a quick, borderline-frantic glance over her shoulder, her eyes darting across faces in the crowd of pedestrians. "Let's just drop it, alright? It's not worth digging any further. Just leave it alone."

She can see the hesitation in his face, the reluctance to push any harder when he can see that she is distressed - and she sees the exact moment he decides this is worth sacrificing whatever little remains of her comfort.

" _Why?"_

She tries to fan the flames of her anger to cover up her fear. "Because _I'm_ the PI and I know when a case has gone cold, alright?" she snaps. "And _this_ case is-"

"What?" he demands, his voice growing louder. "What is it? 'Cos it kinda seems like you _know_ who did it."

"I don't."

"Then what the hell is goin' on, Jones? One minute you're convinced I'm in danger - or, at least, my stellar reputation is - and the next you don't want anything to do with it! What about the people behind King that _you_ believed in two days ago? Are they still a threat to me?"

"I don't know, okay? It just- I don't think we should keep chasing it! It doesn't feel right."

"Yeah, because there's some weird shit goin' on!" he insists, eyes wide and blazing.

Jessica can feel the twist in her eyebrows again, the almost-desperate pinch to her lips, and she has to lift a hand to rub at the back of her neck. Her heart is thumping erratically against her ribs, skipping a beat when the whispers solidify into a coherent word - " _Jessica!"_ \- and she feels an intense restlessness buzzing under her skin. She wants to turn and run and run and _run_ but she shouldn't be running anymore because there's nothing to run _from_ and he's dead, she saw him _die_ and-

"Mr Stark! Could I take just a moment of your time to ask you some quick questions? I promise it won't take long!"

"Uh, sorry, not right now. I'm kinda in the middle of-"

Jessica needs to say her mantra. It's the middle of the day and there are people all around them and Stark is right next to her but she _needs to say it_ -

"Please, sir, I know you're super busy as an _Avenger_ now, but the people have so many questions about the team and what went down during the battle!"

"Yeah, I get that and I sympathise with those people, I really do - it must be _such_ a hardship not knowing every excruciating detail - but I promise I'll do, like, a press-conference or something soon, alright?"

More people are starting to notice Stark. They are beginning to stop on the street and move closer, necks craning to get a glimpse at the billionaire even as he keeps his hood up and his face down by Jessica to try and protect himself. The increased attention is pressing even closer around Jessica's lungs. The whispers are growing louder and threatening to solidify into full sentences.

"How about a sneak peek? You could give us a quick summary of your time in space! What was it like to leave through that portal? How close were you to the explosion? Did you think you were coming back, or did you think it was a one-way trip?"

Jessica realises the strained breathing she can hear is not her own.

"Listen, seriously, I don't wanna talk about that right now, alright? I'll give you all the rundown another time; but I'm-"

"Of course, Mr Stark - God knows you all deserve some rest after what you nearly sacrificed for the city! You can't blame the people for wanting to know more about the aliens and the close-call with death you had to save the city from that bomb! Did you get to say goodbye to anyone before you went up, or was there not enough time?"

Jessica hears the wheeze in Stark's exhale, sees the clutching of his fingers around the sleeve of his sweatshirt. He clamps his jaw shut and it clenches aggressively against his cheeks, and something in her snaps when his eyes widen with panic.

"Back off!" she shouts, and she grabs Stark's wrist to throw his arm over her shoulder, lifting her head to find the closest and lowest building.

Stark barely has time to gasp out a " _What the fu-"_ before Jessica bends her knees and launches herself into the air, an arm wrapped securely around Stark's back to carry him with her.

Air rushes past them, surging under the lapels of her jacket and writhing through her hair. Stark's hood falls back off his head and his free hand flails at his side as he lets out a clipped yelp. The weightlessness exilerates Jessica, for a beat or two, but then her stomach swoops as gravity takes hold of them again and they curve down towards the targeted rooftop.

Being a practiced superhero, Stark bends his knees appropriately when they land, feet scuffing and slipping a little on the gravel. Jessica drops her arm from his back and her hand from his wrist, and his arm slips from her shoulders.

"Holy shit," he breathes, lifting both hands to press and tap at his chest. "Oh my god, this is incredibly unpleasant. What the hell _is it_?"

"Panic attack," Jessica grunts, stumbling further across the rooftop to put distance between her and the crowd on the street, and to try and get out of Stark's earshot. "Main Street. Birch Street," she whispers, closing her eyes and running a hand through her hair. "Higgins Drive. Cobalt Lane." She opens her eyes again and looks down at her upturned palms, assuring herself that they are steady before she turns to look for Stark again.

He's shuffling around, one hand fiddling with his hood at the back of his neck while the other pulls at the collar of his sweatshirt. His eyes catch hers by chance as they flitter around wildly. "Is it normal to want to tighten every article of clothing while also wanting to shed it _all_ and run around butt-naked?" he asks, his voice strained.

Jessica strides over to him, the whispers quieting at the back of her neck as her heart thuds a more steady beat. She thinks of her own mantra, but it's not exactly going to mean a damn thing to Stark, and she doesn't want to divulge that information anyway. But her therapist had encouraged her to use those particular street names because they were a connection to Jessica's past, to her family - they were _important_ to her. What's important to Stark?

"Alright, I want you to name the four most important people in your life," she says firmly, reaching for the wrist of the hand that is grabbing at his hood.

"What?" he pants, his features contorted with panicked confusion.

"Pick the four people you're closest to and tell me their names. First and last. Right now, Stark." She presses her fingertips into the pulse point on his wrist as she pulls his hand down from his shoulder, holding it between them.

"Uh, right. Okay. Alright. James Rhodes," he pushes out between strained breaths.

"Another."

"Pepper Potts. Happy Hogan."

"One more."

"JARVIS."

His chest is still heaving and his pulse is still fluttering quickly against her fingertips, but there's a definite improvement in his erratic movements.

"Say it again," she encourages him. "All of them."

Stark blinks, still confused, but lifts his gaze to meet hers. "James Rhodes. Pepper Potts. Happy Hogan. JARVIS."

His breathing has calmed significantly, the contortion of his features relaxing, his heartbeat steadying out.

"One more time. For good luck," she smirks.

The corner of his mouth twitches. "James Rhodes. Pepper Potts. Happy Hogan. JARVIS."

They breathe together, much calmer now, maintaining eye-contact as the quiet stretches on. The sounds of the outside world start to merge back into Jessica's awareness and she suddenly realises the warmth in the skin on Stark's wrist.

"How did you know that would work?" he asks.

She lets her fingers slip away from his wrist, falling back to her side, and she takes a step back. "It's just something you pick up along the way," she answers vaguely.

He looks down at his chest, watching his fingertips massage over the dirtied tank-top. "Gotta admit, I didn't see _that_ on the cards for me."

Jessica watches him with a faint pinch between her brows. "Y'know, people say it's helpful to talk about the shit you go through." He looks up at her almost warily. "With a professional, obviously," she scowls.

"Yeah, I'm sure they'd have a field day over JARVIS being one of the most important people in my life," he mutters. "Forgive me if I don't go looking for some nerd who thinks they're smarter than I am to dump all my shit on."

Jessica scoffs quietly. "I'm not gonna say anything. Glass houses."

Stark lifts his eyebrows in a quick, silent agreement. He runs a hand through his hair, brushing the curled locks away from his forehead, and passes it over the back of his head before skirting the edge of his jaw. "Jesus, I'm tired," he sighs wearily.

Jessica averts her gaze and licks her lips, feeling a little uncomfortable. The reality of the situation is slowly dawning on her, reminding her that they _both_ just suffered at the hands of their PTSD. Stark may have been too distracted by his own panic and confusion to have recognised her attack, but that doesn't change the fact that she still _lost her composure_ so publicly in front of him. And it's putting her on-edge again.

"Go home," she says, and there's a gentle tone in the words despite the awkward bluntness of them. "Get some rest."

Stark meets her eyes, holding the contact for a moment as if he wants to say something in reply. But, eventually, he just nods and pulls out his phone. He hits a speed dial and brings the phone to his ear, turning his head towards the street they escaped from.

"Hey, Happy. Can-" he begins, but is obviously cut-off by Happy on the other end. "Yeah, I know I have four missed calls- I was a little _busy_ , Happy, I couldn't- jesus christ, she didn't kidnap me, dummy- oh my _god_ , Happy!" he bursts irritably, slapping a hand to his forehead. "Just pull the car around the other side of the building, alright? I'll meet you on the street. Yes. Shut up. Goodbye."

Jessica smirks despite herself, shaking her head at his antics. "One of the big four, huh?"

He throws her a flat glare. "Don't be jealous. It doesn't suit you."

She waves him off and he turns to start walking to the fire escape. His hand lifts to rub at the back of his neck, his face twisting to the side a little as if considering turning back to say something. Jessica can feel the tightness in her chest uncoiling as he moves further away, but her shoulders droop a little, too, and she isn't quite sure what that means.

"Hey, Stark," she calls out, burying her hands in her jacket pockets. He twists so that he faces her, but continues moving further away, eyebrows lifted expectantly. "I wasn't joking earlier. Just drop the case. In my line of work, you gotta learn when to walk away from something." She winces a little, her hands clenching in her pockets. "This is one of those cases you walk away from."

Stark's chest visibly expands as he heaves in a deep inhale, his head rolling backwards as he looks up into the sky. He tucks his hands in the pockets of his sweatshirt and pulls it in tighter over his torso. There's something about the line of his mouth, the careful gleam in his eye, that makes her frown when he nods at her.

He goes to turn around again, but she realises she should probably thank him for providing an alibi at the precinct. "And… y'know," is all she manages, shrugging.

The corner of his mouth quirks into his cheek and a small breeze knocks a lock of hair back onto his forehead, and Jessica's jaw clenches. "Yeah, you too," he calls back.

And then he turns and walks to the fire escape, disappearing past the edge of the rooftop. Jessica blows out a wearied exhale, her gaze dropping to the gravel beneath her feet as her hair flutters around her face. She stands with the sun beating down on her, and she thinks about the darkness that festers inside her soul, her heart, her flesh and bones, and she half-heartedly wonders if there'd be any amount of sun and warmth and _good_ that could seep into her and chase the darkness away.

But she closes her eyes and can practically _feel_ the tainted, corrupted blood sludging through her veins, the weight of regret and shame and loathing on her chest, the twisted chaos of paranoia and terror in her mind, and a bitter anger _burns_ inside her.

"Shit," she hisses.

She scuffs the toe of her boot on the gravel of the rooftop and opens her eyes again, looking around to find the direction of her apartment. And she considers again a trip to see Hogarth to find a new case.

"I need a drink."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll be glad to know I finished watching through season 1 of Jessica Jones and taking notes/making summaries of every episode, and I also came up with plans for every episode merging with this story!! So excited to get into that next chapter.
> 
> I do have a question for you guys though and it's very important: when we get into season 1 next chapter, would you rather I covered the entire episodes and wrote them and any OC content as well, or would you rather I cut it down to the bits I think are most important? I'm not sure the best way to go about it, to be honest, and could really do with some feedback to help decide! Pretty please x
> 
> Anyway I hope you enjoyed the chapter and please feel free to leave any comments! And remember I have a Tumblr account the-nerdnextdoor where you can see updates on my writing and life in general xx


	14. Ladies' Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jessica officially meets Luke Cage. Tony calls with an update.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally plucked up the courage to dive into episode one and start writing! Thanks to everyone who left feedback to my question last chapter - I've decided to go with the general consensus and only cover the parts I think are most important in each episode. It's also likely that the episodes will be split into more than one chapter, like this one is!
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy - let me know what you think!

Things have been getting worse. She can pretend they haven't, but she's only lying to herself and Jessica Jones' bullshit radar is one of the best. So, yeah, things have been getting worse. And by ' _things'_ , she means her own mental state - her grasp of reality, her ability to sleep at night, her social skills, her paranoia, her self-worth, her memories. Every day she becomes more blunt, more cynical and bitter, more volatile, and every night it gets harder and harder to stop refilling her glass and actually confront the bed that waits for her. She eyes civilians in the street if they're too hunched in on themselves, too hidden by hoods and scarves and hats, if their destinations have them walking the same way as her for too long. Every conversation is an agitation, every lingering glance an intrusion. Her skin is _crawling_ with a tension that writhes its way under her flesh into her muscles and bones, burrowing so deep she can barely remember a life without it, and that really is the worst part - the fact that this is her _normal_ now, and has been for so long.

In other news, Hogarth had offered her a job as the firm's full-time investigator. Jessica had been drunk at the time, of course, at one in the afternoon, but her rejection of the offer was still valid. Even if it manifested in a variety of particularly-colourful insults that, to be honest, she's actually kind of proud of. But when she'd rejected it, Hogarth had been confused, to say the least. She had told Jessica not to be stupid and to think of the consistent paychecks she'd be bringing in, the likes of which she'd be hard-pressed to find on her own as a freelancer. While it was a good point, and Jessica _did_ consider how easily she could keep her whiskey stocked up on that kind of salary, she knows it just wouldn't have been worth it. Working for a firm like that, for people like Hogarth, is something she isn't interested in - she knows she belongs in the shitty darkness with the other shitty people already festering there; but working for Hogarth full-time somehow feels _worse_. At least being freelance and visiting every so often to sniff out a decent, one-off paycheck maintains some _agency_ on Jessica's part - if she took the job, she'd lose the ability to turn a case down altogether. Losing her agency is something she refuses to endure ever again. Sometimes it feels like the only thing she's got left, and even then it's tainted.

Besides, it's hard to regret saying 'no' when Hogarth still gave her a job, despite having found a replacement for the position Jessica rejected.

Trish would probably count the job offer as a win, a positive, an indication that Jessica is doing well and is creating this new life for herself. That her talents are recognised and appreciated and sought out. She'd have agreed that working for Hogarth wouldn't exactly have equalled righteous work, but she'd still have found a way to spin it into something positive and complimentary to Jessica. Reason fifty-nine for not telling her.

Reason _sixty_ is because Trish would ask Jessica what she'd been doing instead, and she'd do that _thing_ where she made it impossible _not_ to admit shit to her, and Jessica would end up coming clean about what she does when she can't sleep, when she _won't_ sleep, and Trish would give her _that look_ and use _that voice_ and say some shit like, " _You have to let it go, Jess. It's not healthy."_

As if anything Jessica does _is_ healthy.

So she's started checking in again on the widowed husband she'd created - so what? She wants to catch up with the guy whose life she decimated with a single punch. She wants to find some piece of evidence, some _tiny sliver_ of proof that he's doing alright, despite the fact that he lost his wife and doesn't even know the truth about _how_. She wants to catch a fleeting glimpse of genuine happiness in him, a tiny peek at contentment in his life as it stands - evidence that he has moved on with his life and can find happiness beyond the grief and anguish she watched him suffer for the first few months, that she _inflicted_ upon him.

And maybe every time Jessica goes to watch him, all she sees is a broken man donning a casual, charming, alluringly-indifferent mask to bag himself a distraction for the night - and maybe that's what she deserves. It's not like she'd ever forgive herself if she _saw_ a glimpse of that sincere joy she so desperately wants for him; but it'd at least make the guilt a hell of a lot easier to bear. Seeing him still so burdened with grief and sorrow, it just reminds her _why_ she belongs in the darkness. Because she _did that to him_. The blood was on her hands - it still is. She ruined his life.

Jessica knows it's not healthy to keep going back. She knows it wasn't _her_ \- not really. But it still _was her_. It was her body that delivered the blow, even if her body was listening to someone else's commands. Trish tried for so long to put her off that line of thinking, but it's hard to let go of the guilt when those commands were made to _feel_ like her desires. It wasn't just puppetry, it was manipulation. It was full-blown _theft_ and _violation_ of someone's most private and vulnerable self to suit a foreign master. It was an all-consuming infestation and invasion that ripped away _every_ ounce of control Jessica had and left her a compliant, submissive husk of a person.

And it haunts her. Sometimes it hits her harder than the whispers do. She hears them uttering commands like a breath against the shell of her ear; but it's the lingering echo of obedient movement in her limbs that makes her stomach twist and clench. The phantom desperation to _fulfill_ and _please_. It makes her hate _him_ , yes, but it makes her hate _herself_ , too. She wishes she'd been stronger - mentally, not physically, of course, since that was one of the main reasons she was taken. She wishes she never got her powers.

Did the good outweigh the bad? Jessica can hardly remember the good, so probably not.

She'd likely remember it better if she did something healthy like meditation or therapy when her PTSD keeps flaring up so frequently; but that'd be wildly out of character. And just _not_ enjoyable. She can almost hear Trish's voice in her head, pointing out that " _I don't think spying on this guy as a form of self-inflicted punishment is enjoyable either, Jess."_ Imaginary-Trish is right, of course, because Jessica feels sick whenever she sees his mask slip, exposing the endless grief that he's only suffering because she's strong enough to kill someone with a single punch to the chest, but Imaginary-Trish doesn't need to know that.

And it doesn't stop Jessica from coming back again.

She pauses beneath her usual fire escape, staring up at the cool, uncomfortable metal glinting in the street lights. The last time she was up there, she almost dozed off and was hit with a flash of PTSD. The lights from the bar are much warmer and livelier, the muffled sound of the music drifting across the street. It'll be open for another while yet. It's also very difficult to catch a glimpse of the guy through the windows from the height she usually hides at.

Maybe she'll be able to see some of that genuine happiness in him when he's in his element. She's never tried it before. Maybe all she needs to do is take a look through the window, and there he'll be, laughing bright and carefree with his friends. Maybe there will even be someone who cares for him, someone he's been scared to let himself get close to, but will encourage him to trust and love again.

Jessica crosses the street. Inside the bar there are a variety of patrons, all bathed in a warm glow and wearing happy, sociable expressions. It seems as if a lot of them know each other, likely through frequenting the bar, and it lends the place a familiar, welcoming vibe. Jessica peers in through the windows, searching the faces from one side of the building to the next. Her flask is clutched tightly in her hand, almost as if to persuade herself that she doesn't need to go _inside_ and have a drink, despite the appeal of the good-quality whiskey she can see on the shelves.

She just needs to get a look at the guy, then she'll go.

But it seems like there's only an older gentleman working the bar. Maybe tonight's the one night he's taken off. Figures.

"You _could_ drink that out of a glass."

Jessica knows the speaker before she even turns around. Her heart seizes for a moment, her mind rushing with sudden panic, but she endeavours to push it aside and act normal.

Luke Cage, the widowed husband by her doing, sends her a quick glance as he drops a bag of garbage into the trash can. She hadn't realised the side door here belonged to the bar - her vantage point on the fire escape doesn't allow her to see past the corner of the building to see him come out.

"This whiskey's not good enough to put in a glass," Jessica responds, forcing humour through the shock and discomfort.

"Yeah? I've got better stuff in there," he says. Jessica shifts uneasily while he lifts the other garbage bag over the trash can. "I've seen you around here, but you never come inside."

 _Shit_. Clearly, she's not as inconspicuous as she thought; but she supposes the borderline-obsession with seeing something to make the guilt more bearable can kind of get in the way.

"I buy in bulk," she tells him.

If it was anyone else not taking the hint, she'd have tossed a couple insults their way and stalked off. But this isn't anyone. It's the man whose life she ruined, whose marriage she prematurely ended, whose wife she _killed_. The part of her that still concerns itself with morals - the part that often manifests as Imaginary-Trish - figures she should probably be admitting the truth and begging for forgiveness, at this point. But she can't exactly just _come out with it_ on the sidewalk at this time of night with a flask of whiskey in her hand and him brushing the dirt of the trash can from his fingers. She can't just drop it on him without warning.

The tension burrowed in her flesh buzzes disconcertingly when he starts to walk towards her, glancing into his bar.

"It's ladies' night. New promotion I'm running," he says.

Jessica scoffs quietly, following his gaze and taking stock of his customers. "No, it's not."

Luke comes to a stop, leaving about a metre of distance between them. His hands slip into his pockets and he looks down at her, his mouth curling into a small smirk. "It is now."

He's persistent. And flirtatious. _And the man whose wife she killed_. "Why?" she asks.

Luke doesn't miss a beat. "You're local, you're hot, drinking alone. Tends to attract customers." He brushes by her on his way back to the front door. "But hey, don't do me any favours."

He mustn't recognise her from the news of the Incident. To be fair, not many people have - she kind of wonders if Stark has anything to do with that. Even so, she should walk away _now_ before she makes the situation any more complicated than it already is.

But she'd wanted to see if there was any happiness in his job, in his bar. She'd wanted to catch a glimpse of it so that she could put this all to rest, if that was even possible. Now that she's interacted with him, brief as it was, the part of her still caught up on morals is insisting she _has_ to tell him the truth. If she walks away now and doesn't tell him, it'll follow her, because there's no excuse not to do it. She has her moment of opportunity, and it'll make her some kind of coward to walk away and never look back.

So she sighs, steels herself, and follows him into the bar. He has a glass of whiskey waiting at an empty stool for her. The smug, amused smirk he throws her when she catches his eye makes the tension under her skin buzz again, for a multitude of reasons.

There's another hour or so until the bar closes, and the patrons are all lively enough and eager enough to keep Luke busy, so Jessica is able to mostly keep to herself at the end of the bar with her whiskey glass, and she tries not to watch his every move.

Between the whiskey, the instinctual urge to suppress all the guilt and shame and nausea she's feeling, the way he smirks at her when he fills up her glass, and the casual flirting he drops on her when he walks past, Jessica finds it hard to stay focused. She was going to have used all this time sitting here, observing him, to figure out how the _hell_ she could explain what she'd done. It's all well and good coming clean to Trish, or talking things over with a therapist as vaguely as possible, but it's another thing entirely to tell the person left standing in the ashes and rubble of her mistake that it wasn't a freak accident, that _she_ was the one who detonated the bomb in their perfect life.

Even if there's still that grief clinging to his skin like the stench of smoke, she can see that he _enjoys_ the flirting. Even if he looks like he might regret things after his distraction leaves at night, he gets _some_ kind of positive feeling from the back-and-forth. It's far too easy to fall into it with him. The banter is well-matched and full of implication, and Jessica tries to justify it as an attempt to get to know him better so that she can determine the best way to break the news; but she's not deluded enough to attempt to claim that for all it is.

She's flirting back because it's hard not to - there's no denying the mutual attraction between them. He's tall, broader than most men she comes across, with a dangerous smirk and warmth behind the playfulness in his eyes. He's observant and witty, clearly inspires a lot of respect and loyalty in his customers, and he hasn't said a single flirty line that's made her cringe. She thinks they probably could have been something, in another life.

Cluster by cluster, the other patrons in the bar buy their last rounds, down the rest of their drinks, and head out for the night. She'd figured waiting until it was just the two of them in the bar would be the perfect time to perform her speech of apologies and explanations. She'd imagined herself with it all worked out in her head, the words ready to fall off her tongue in as sincere and compassionate a tone as Jessica can manage. It would allow them privacy, allow Luke the freedom to react however he wanted without an audience. She could even leave a big tip, because what the hell else could she do?

"Headin' out, boss," the older man calls.

"Be good, Roy," Luke responds, cleaning glasses.

"Why start now, huh?"

Jessica smirks to herself, listening to his laughter dissolve into the cough of an aged smoker, and downs her shot of whiskey.

"Last call," Luke warns her amicably.

Jessica doesn't have an eloquent speech planned out. The words aren't there. She doesn't know how to find a way to articulate the explanation that won't come off as insensitive or selfish.

"Still ladies' night?" she asks, and the whiskey coats her words with more flirtation than she meant.

Luke just nods, watching her. The tension under her skin is thrumming against it, trying to push through.

She slides the shot glass over the bar. "Make it a double."

Luke complies, bringing over the near-finished bottle. "Lot of booze for such a small woman," he comments.

"I don't get asked on a lot of second dates," she responds wryly.

Luke's amusement seems genuine. It reminds Jessica why she's here, why she decided to stay to this point.

"How long you been doing this?"

"A while," Luke answers, wiping down more glasses.

"You from around here? You got family here? Friends?" _Are you happy?_

Luke shrugs, nonchalant and disinterested in the topic - enough to discourage further probing. "I got regulars."

Jessica observes him, the practiced way he dismisses the questions, the patient ease as he no-doubt searches through his repertoire of casual small talk to redirect the conversation. She knew she wasn't going to find anything she hadn't seen, coming in here. She knew it would be as much of a dead-end as it is watching him distract himself with casual flings. But she came in anyway. Maybe she was that desperate for a way to relieve herself of some guilt; maybe she was tired of feeling sick seeing his mask slip when his chosen paramour isn't looking; maybe she wanted to see him the way _they_ see him - the way he _wants_ to be seen.

She can't pretend her intentions were all righteous and honourable. She fought alongside heroes, but that doesn't make her one of them. She knows from experience that she isn't strong enough to face trauma and come out the other side of it vowing to devote herself to _good deeds_ and an unbreakable moral compass. She let her trauma twist and taint her, warping her into something not-quite evil, but not _good_ either.

She knew she'd never be able to think of a way to explain to Luke what she'd done.

Jessica downs the shot.

"Hard day at the office?" Luke asks.

"They're all hard," Jessica replies.

"Pops always said, if you don't feel good going to work, you should find new work."

"I did that. I'm working the new work," she retorts.

"Yeah? What kinda business you in?"

Jessica leans back, a tight smile of reluctance pulling at her lips. She doesn't want him to get to know her. She doesn't want him to get a glimpse under the surface, to work out that there's something hidden underneath, something she's hiding _from him_. This isn't her usual aversion to letting people in, because there's something horrible at risk here. She wants to control the way she tells him, if she ever figures out how; she doesn't want him to sniff it out prematurely.

Luke clicks his tongue. "Right. You only _ask_ questions."

"I'm still waiting on answers," she tells him. She's flirting again, but the alcohol has softened her self-restraint, loosened her tongue, and it's hard to force herself to focus on how she'll tell him the truth when he's this attractive and flirting so easily with her, and when she knows she's not going to come up with some great speech tonight anyway.

"Ladies first," Luke's voice rumbles.

If he gets some enjoyment from flirting, especially when they seem to be quite efficient at it, putting a stop to it now and breaking the mood with a sudden and awful truth-bomb would hurt his feelings, she figures.

She reaches into her satchel and pulls out a business card, sliding it across the bar to him and ignoring the voice in her head that yells at her for doing something as _stupid_ as giving him her details.

Luke picks it up. "You're a PI?" he frowns.

"I'm just trying to make a living. You know, booze costs money. Usually."

"There's better ways to hustle than digging in people's business."

"It's the only thing I'm good at."

The longer she sits here, not coming clean about what she did, the worse the fall-out will be when she finally does. Is she buying herself more time to come up with something, or is she purposefully wasting more time until it reaches a point that coming clean would do more harm than good?

Or is she simply just fuzzy in the head from whiskey and having a flirtatious conversation with a hot guy who openly finds her attractive and is known for casual entanglements? Is she simply tired of enduring the tension writhing under her skin, and has seen a way to relieve some of it? The longer they make eye-contact and the more he sends her smirks and speaks to her in that baritone voice, the more the tension is transforming into the kind that dances across her skin, making her fingers twitch and crave to reach out. She wants to feel bad - or maybe it's that she _doesn't_ want to feel bad and it's a little disconcerting how easy it is not to - but they're both getting something out of this.

And she's _tired_.

"How good?" Luke challenges.

"A natural."

"Yeah?" he asks, stepping closer. "So, what have you _detected_?"

"Well, I can tell by the residue on this bar that four years ago, a man named Horace had buffalo wings."

"His name was Melvin," Luke replies, feigning a wince.

Jessica tries not to feel so amused. "I stand in dark alleys and wait to take pictures of people boning."

Luke takes a breath. "Except you been watching me like a hawk since you walked in."

"Force of habit," she lies.

"Or it's your way of flirting," he counters.

Something about him calling her out for watching him, for the wrong reasons, but for calling out the fact that she _is_ still flirting, makes her defensive. "I don't flirt. But you do. Not for sport. It's got purpose." This is instinctual, reading him defensively after he tried to read her. "Like getting customers to drink more. Tip more."

Luke eyes her curiously and leans against the bar, bringing his face closer. "So what else you got, Sherlock?"

"All right," Jessica concedes - even though she really shouldn't. But she's getting caught up in it all, in the way his presence is leaning into her space. "A drunk spills on your shirt, pukes on your shoe, and you roll with it. But break or scratch something? He's toast. I've never seen a dive bar this clean."

Luke lowers his head, as if she's making him uncomfortable, but then it lifts again and there's something _more_ to his gaze, something deeper.

"Because you care about it. More than anything. Maybe anyone. There's history here." She _knows_ there is. "Memories. Something personal, but private. So no photos or memorabilia." She's touching a nerve, pushing too hard, overstepping a line _beyond_ a line. "But you also like women," she adds, trying to sound more playful, trying to lighten the mood. "Temporarily, at least. And they like you."

Luke eyes her appreciatively. "See, now, _that_ sounded like flirting to me," he comments quietly.

The tension dancing across her skin is crackling. "Again, I don't flirt. I just say what I want."

"And what _do_ you want?"

Jessica looks at him, considering the question.

" _Yeah, Jess. What do you want?"_ Imaginary-Trish asks in the back of her head, beyond the fuzzy warmth of inebriation.

She wants Luke to find happiness past his grief. She wants him to find closure and move on. She wants one less person to be trapped by what she did. He could be entertaining temporary flings for fun and the enjoyment of meeting new people, not as a way to make him forget for a while, and she wants that for him. He could be finding a new way to _live_ rather than simply _existing_ , and she wants that for him, too.

But there's a reason Jessica belongs in the darkness. She's not selfless. Because she wants to escape the guilt that keeps her shackled in the shadows. She wants to stop seeing a broken man with his defenses built high and impenetrable and knowing that it's all because of her. She wants some kind of absolvement, some _forgiveness_ , but she doesn't want to get it by revealing who she is at her core and what she's done. She doesn't want him to _see her_ for who - for _what_ \- she truly is.

She wants to _forget_ about how paranoid and wired she's been for _months_. She wants to _forget_ about how amplified it's been recently, how it feels like she's walking towards an unseeable, unknowable crescendo to the apprehension and fear she's been suffering.

She wants to forget about Thomas King. She wants to forget about the person or people _behind_ Thomas King that she's been pretending no longer exist. She wants to forget about the Shlottmans and their concern for the daughter who's been whisked away by some fairytale romance. She wants to forget about Trish imagining a _goodness_ in Jessica. She wants to forget Hogarth seeing and banking on the _darkness_ inside Jessica. She wants to forget the way Stark looks at her and sees something raw and familiar, something he can relate to and therefore _truly see_.

She wants to forget what she did, who she is. She wants to be someone who doesn't see past the mask Luke wears. She wants to forget, and to help him forget.

"I wanna see what all the fuss is about," she answers finally, her lips curving into a smirk that conceals everything she's forgetting about for the next hour or so. "For research purposes, of course."

And it works, for a time. But then she's looking at him and he's _looking at her_ and she's so struck by a panic that he's going to _see_ , she has to turn herself over and sever the eye-contact. The tension crackling over her skin is alight and _searing_ , and she chases the feeling, lets it consume her, loses herself to it, and she _forgets_.

They lay there on their backs, side by side, and Jessica feels a fleeting, light relief. The tension is no longer igniting her skin. She thinks for a moment that it worked, she's been distracted, she got what she wanted.

But the longer she lays there, their sweat intermingled on her body, the smell of them in the air, the sound of Luke's breathing so close, the more aware she becomes of herself. And, no, she didn't relieve the tension that's been plaguing her for weeks. It burst from her skin, transforming into something different while she flirted and engaged with Luke and melted away when pleasure overtook all else; but it's settling back in again, worming its way under her skin to thrum agitatedly in her bones. She was distracted, and she forgot, but it hasn't fixed anything.

Luke's apartment is sparsely furnished, but she knew there'd be _something_ here connected to Reva. One of the few logical places is the mirrored cabinet in his bathroom. She's completely aware that she might find it when she opens the door, so it doesn't surprise her when Reva's smiling face peers out at her from the shelf. It's hidden behind his toiletries, waiting for a day when he feels strong enough to look, she supposes.

It doesn't surprise her, but it spurs a fresh, overwhelming wave of self-loathing.

She tidies herself and redresses herself quickly, not even managing to glance in Luke's direction. She can feel him watching her, the gaze burning into her back and making her want to squirm and _run_. She settles for a brisk walk, faltering only to offer him a weak, underwhelming, insufficient, "Sorry."

So much for an explanation.

Her stomach has twisted before, making her feel sick when she sat on the fire escape and saw Luke's mask slip. But _this_.. this is different.

She's ashamed of herself. So completely and utterly _disgusted_ by her selfishness. The cool air does nothing to ease the nausea when she makes it outside. She touched Luke with the same hand she killed his wife with. She pretended she didn't know him, his story, his grief, and she took advantage of his desire to distract himself. There's no redemption for this, no forgiveness, no salvation. Just repulsion and unbridled loathing.

Jessica vomits on the sidewalk. It doesn't make her feel better either. The corruption is too ingrained in her to be dispelled so easily.

* * *

Jessica regrets setting her ringtone so loud. She also regrets renting an apartment under the noisiest pricks she's ever had the misfortune of living near.

She doesn't check the number of the caller when she answers her phone. "Alias Investigations," she mumbles.

" _Stark Industries,"_ a voice chirps from the other end.

Jessica grunts. "Cute."

" _What? I'm the 'sunshine' to your 'grumpy one'."_

"I don't know what that means," Jessica frowns as she rubs the heel of her palm into her forehead aggressively, willing away the headache her hangover's attacked her with. She doesn't even want to acknowledge the tension still thrumming under her skin or the repulsed twist in her stomach. Or the fact that she slept on her couch because she couldn't face her bed.

" _Get with the times, Jones, or the times will leave you behind."_

"The times can go fuck themselves."

Stark snorts down the phone. " _Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning."_

Jessica falters, wincing to herself as she shuffles into a more upright position. "Something like that," she mutters. "Did you call for a reason?"

Stark is quiet for a beat, and her face twists into a scowl, waiting for him to voice the fact that he can tell something's wrong. How did it become so easy for them to read each other? How can he read her, even through the phone, better than anyone, save Trish? Is it literally just the fact that they both suffer from PTSD, or is there something else?

Maybe they're both better off not knowing.

" _I've been doing some investigating,"_ he says, and there's a carefulness under the nonchalance in his tone.

Jessica feels anger flare in her chest and she focuses on it to avoid thinking about the nausea still churning her stomach. "What the hell, man? I told you to drop it," she snaps, twisting on the couch to plant her feet on the floor.

" _Oh, you know me. I'm too much of a free spirit to be bogged down by other people's wishes. I also don't like it when people tell me what to do - it's a whole thing. Problems with authority, likely due to issues with my dad."_

"This isn't a joke, Stark."

" _Yeah, I know, Jones. That's why I couldn't drop it."_

Jessica sighs harshly and rubs at her face, her annoyance with the billionaire only proving to aggravate the tension coiling through her body. "I take it you found something," she mutters reluctantly.

Stark clears his throat. " _Yeah. Yeah, I did. I don't want you to worry that I'm a better PI or anything like that - you gotta take into consideration the fact that I've got more resources than you."_

"Stark," she bites out warningly, her fingers slipping up her face and into her hair as her eyes fall shut.

" _Just don't wanna damage your self-esteem,"_ he quips. " _I had JARVIS scour the city's CCTV footage to track King from the first day he came to see you until the day he died. I thought you might find it interesting to know that both days he visited your place, someone spoke to him on the street about twenty minutes beforehand."_

Jessica's eyes open and she stares out into the empty, stale air of her apartment. A whisper crawls up the nape of her neck, leaving uncomfortable goosebumps in its wake. "The same person both times?" she asks in a voice that sounds quiet and hollow.

" _Yeah, I think so. Still working on getting a view of the guy's face - he's pretty efficient at keeping it outta the camera's reach. But I feel like this could be the puppeteer, y'know?"_

Jessica swallows, wincing at the tightening of her ribs around her lungs. Her fingers shake a little, so she curls them into her palm and _clenches_. "What does he look like?" she asks, forcing the words out through the nauseous shrinking of her throat.

" _Tall. Slim. Brown hair. One of those well-dressed criminals, if he's got a record, which I'm willing to bet he does."_

Jessica's head twists away from the whisper of her name in her ear. She clamps her hand over the back of her neck to ward off the echoing touches of someone else's fingertips.

" _I could send you pictures, if you want?"_

"No," she says quickly, her voice nearly breaking. The tension buzzing under her skin is so insistent she wonders if someone could see her whole body vibrating if they looked at her closely enough.

" _Jones,"_ Stark says, the careful tone pushing to the surface of his voice, " _What's goin' on?"_

"I told you to drop the case," she bites out. "I _want_ you to drop the case. Let it go. Leave it alone."

" _If you could tell me_ why-"

Jessica's face twists into an expression she's sure looks pathetic. "Please, Tony," she says quietly, brokenly. "I need you to let it go."

It's silent for a long moment, stretching on and on and doing nothing to calm the nerves she is slowly losing control of. She feels terrifyingly exposed, like she has cracked open her skull _and_ her chest for him to peer into.

And then he answers her, and his voice is as quiet as hers, as open and readable as she was forced to be. " _You know I can't, Jessica."_

She squeezes her eyes shut and exhales shakily. She knows there's nothing else she can say, nothing she can do to dissuade him, short of telling him everything - but he already _sees_ her more than she can bear. He's going to keep investigating, and with _his_ resources he's likely to get further than she wants to go.

She tells herself there's no reason to fear that, because _it's_ not going to happen again. _He's_ dead. She saw him die. It's _over_.

But her gut is writhing and screaming, urging her to _run_ and _hide_ and _escape_ , agitating the tension under her skin into a deafening frenzy that feels like it'll erupt into flames at any moment.

And it is _begging_ to be listened to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there we have it - Jessica and Luke have officially met, and shit's about to hit the fan with a certain someone! By the way, I'm not a person who enjoys, like, love triangle sort of situations, and it's really important to me that Tony and Jessica learn to be friends first before they dive into anything serious, so we're not really going to have any drama with the whole Luke/Jessica thing that's anything more than what we saw in the show.


End file.
